


In the End, There’s Only Eternity…

by DreadSigilOdegra, Salenya



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Gratuitious hair play, It's Ineffable, M/M, Plot, Six Thousand Years Slow Burn, The Ineffable Husbands, Violence, best of queen, graphic smut, the ineffable plan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-09-07 19:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 151,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20314477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreadSigilOdegra/pseuds/DreadSigilOdegra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salenya/pseuds/Salenya
Summary: The War to end all Wars was a threat that Aziraphale and Crowley thwarted with help from an Antichrist, former Hellhound, witch, false psychic, Witchfinder Sergeant, Newt, and three mortal children.Will the angel and demon be able to find their much deserved slice of Heaven on Earth?(Please stay safe everyone. Updates are taking longer than anticipated to be put out, and for that I apologize.)





	1. The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives

It had ended, just as it had begun. With a garden, and an apple. But this is a new beginning. One of hope, of promise, and of things unspoken. To understand how it came to be, we would have to look back upon the failure of the Great Plan.

The world was their figurative oyster, and it was with a static of anticipation on the air that they realized time was theirs to embrace; that the mild-mannered angel and haughty demon were on their _own_ side.

His head was light with the Dom Perignon from the Ritz, and for the first time, Crowley only had a belly full of wine to burden him. It was Monday, two days after what was to have been The End of everything he cared for.

The two paused just outside of The Bookshop.

“Feels funny…” mused Crowley aloud.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale’s normally proper accent was tainted with the heaviness of alcohol. His gaze flicked to the demon, and idle hands began stroking themselves worriedly. “We’re truly alright, aren’t we, Crowley? They won’t –“

He meant to shush, but it sounded like more of a serpent’s hiss, “Sh-scth-scth!” Black lenses that had been angled up at the darkening sky fell upon the angel’s face, cheeks slightly flushed from the wine. He frowned at the renewed anxiety. “I’m good and soused… don’t ruin it.” Clearly he wasn’t inebriated enough, and Crowley decided he needed to rectify that.

The worry that had begun to crinkle between brows smoothed. “Too right. Shall we retire and continue our celebratory revelry?”

“Debauchery. I’m a demon, therefore I debauch.” This was groused quietly as Aziraphale unlocked the shop’s door. Though he wore his glasses, it would have been impossible for Crowley to not see how the sun shone down on the angel; an imperceptible halo as it illuminated blonde curls.

Aziraphale didn’t doubt his good friend’s history of debauchery. “After you,” An outward sweep of a hand, features downcast, yet blue eyes lifted to watch Crowley as he passed.

The bell overhead chimed, and with the gravitas of a legendary, albeit intoxicated, musician, Crowley slunk over to the sofa and draped himself comfortably. The click of the lock, and drawing of the shade over the door’s window seemed almost too loud. “Yanno, with all this free time, I’m going have to start a band, or… something…” Crowley regarded Aziraphale as he set about the task of resetting the needle on the gramophone. He fetched a bottle of 1945 Romanee-Conti burgundy and two wineglasses. The beginning notes of Vivaldi filled the shop, and Aziraphale passed Crowley a poured glass.

“Would that make me your… oh, what is that clever term? …groupie?” He settled into his chair, placing the bottle of wine on the desktop. A sip was taken.

Crowley nearly choked, sputtering, “_Wot?"_

Two bottles of the burgundy lay overturned on Aziraphale’s cluttered desk. Several additional empties of Claret were dead soldiers clustered on the extra table. Crowley was perched on the back of the sofa, a makeshift stage. He wouldn’t dare admit, even to himself, that he was trying to impress the angel. “This is the excellent _foppery _of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, -- often the surfeit of our own behavior, -- we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compuls—“ Crowley had grown animated, and made to step off the sofa and pace. The distance to the floor was miscalculated, and he stumbled several paces. Balance was regained swiftly, and drunkenly, with a whirl of lean frame to face Aziraphale. No wine was spilt.

A hand clasped to his mouth, preventing wine from escaping with his giggle. “Drunkards, liars, and adultererers.” His glass was raised in salute. Crowley returned to the sofa, and as the demon stretched out, a small smile played at the corners of Aziraphale’s lips, utterly besotted.

Over the rise of his glass Crowley watched him. The blatant reflection of emotions in blue eyes was a painful stab. He desperately wanted to tell Aziraphale just how beautiful he looked with his cheeks flushed and his expression calm._ Fuck. _In the hours they had spent drinking, his glasses had gone missing, allowing him to level Aziraphale with his reptilian gaze. His attention dropped to the soft mouth. He studied lips that were curved in the most endearing smile; and _oh, _how overdue were they for a kiss. Crowley felt a stirring inside of him that had been a fleeting thought in Rome… desire. “_We know what we are, but know not what we may be…”_ His voice was quiet, uncertain, and said mostly to himself. For a long moment, he allowed himself to entertain the idea of pulling Aziraphale into his arms, and tasting of him. Who was to stop them now? They could be together. His gaze held the weight of his longing. Nothing was supposed to be standing in their way now… so why did he hesitate?

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably under the penetrating stare. He couldn’t decipher Crowley’s expression. A polite clearing of his throat in an attempt to prompt his friend to give voice to his inner dialogue. “Crowley?”

It pulled him back to the present, and away from wondering how Aziraphale would feel enveloped close to his chest. Warning alarms filled his mind. _I’m too drunk for this_. The demon unfolded himself from the sofa, his unfinished glass placed amongst the empty bottles. Crowley was having difficulty sorting through befuddled thoughts.

“You were saying?” Aziraphale spread a hand out, encouragement for Crowley to continue.

“Just that… y-you’re a sentimental fool.” It was a self-reflected statement.

Aziraphale was accustomed to Crowley being obtuse. “Is that such a drea… bad thing?”

The alcohol was clouding his senses, and it took considerable effort for him to redirect his attention. Was this something the angel even wanted? How many times had he been rejected? Crowley knew Aziraphale cared for him, but what did that mean for them presently? Would Heaven and Hell stand down and allow them be together? Would _God _allow it to come to fruition? No, They most certainly wouldn’t. God wouldn’t hesitate to cast Aziraphale out of Heaven, as They had done to him so long ago. “Yup,” It was emphasized with a pop of his mouth. “It is a bad thing.” Once more, the comment was directed inwardly, a reminder. Crowley couldn’t let himself get caught up in fanciful ideas. He had to be realistic.

“Says the demon that’s in love with his car.” His tone was light, teasing; smile affable. Aziraphale was oblivious to the inner turmoil. The alcohol and time spent with Crowley were doing a bang up job of quelling his anxiety.

There it was again. The reminder of not only _what_ he was, but that he was so incapable of love that it was a joke. “And what of it, _angel_?” The pet name was twisted with his sardonic tone. “Is it so _undemonly_ of me to love something?” His jaw clenched, and Crowley lashed out verbally. His words were venomous as his temper flared. “You know, you couldn’t _possibly_ understand. Not all of us get to be angels.” 

“Crowley… I…” Aziraphale faltered, perplexed. The anger left him stunned. They had been laughing together mere moments before, and reciting Shakespeare. Where had things gone sour? Wine clouded his thoughts, and it was hard for him to process back on what he could have possibly said or done to upset his friend so thoroughly.

Before Aziraphale could properly formulate his response, Crowley interjected abruptly. “I gott’a go.”

His uncertain smile slipped, replaced with solemnity. “Oh. Are you sure?” His blurred vision flicked to the clock. “It’s not even 3.00, Crowley. Do you have an extraor— do you have a lot of evil deeds that need commen—to be done in the morning?” Aziraphale’s tone was tentative and light, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation.

Such an innocent question, that shouldn’t have affected him. _I am a demon, after all. _But that hadn’t been _his choice._ “Yeah, actually. I do. _Wicked_ things. Hellish things. Things your lot look down on from your high horses. _You_ _know_ that I’ve never intended to hurt anybody.” He crammed his hands into his pockets, preventing him from pointing an accusing finger at Aziraphale. “As a matter of fact, for six thousand years, I’ve been going out of my way to keep the cosmic scales balanced, as per our _mutual _Arrangement. Or have you already forgotten, _your Holiness_?” Crowley growled in frustration, a sound that grated in the back of his throat. He knew the anger he felt was misplaced.

Aziraphale remained quiet, too drunk to keep up. His eyebrows furrowed with his frown. The accusation stung. “_Crowley_…” It was a quiet plea. “I just… since we no longer have to report back to our head offices, I assumed we had time to… to celebrate…”

He didn’t pace towards the door like a caged feline, so much as sauntered with the fluidity of a snake obtaining two legs. “Shouldn’t assume things. I got m’plants at home, and I-I-I need a new plant mister so I gott’a research that, yanno. Lots’a other things to do, and you can’t expect me to just put it all off for you and some…” Yellow eyes flicked from the top of Aziraphale’s blonde curls, to the toes of his Oxfords. Crowley’s lip curled in a sneer. The next words were hissed, only missing the flash of a forked tongue. “_ssssoiree_.”

The bell tinkled twice as the door was tugged open, and then slammed closed with enough force to vibrate the viewing window.

Aziraphale was baffled, but moreover, he felt the sting of hurt. “Right, well...” His gaze fell to his lap, voice quiet, “that’s... _nifty."_

“_Fuck_…” Rain began as a soft mist, which escalated into a heavier pattering that flattened his red hair. He stomped in puddles as he crossed the empty street to his car. The moment the door closed behind him, the rain evaporated out of his clothing and hair. Crowley _did _love his Bentley – it had been faithful to him for several decades. The engine roared to life, Queen’s _Save Me _slicing through the silence. A fist collided with the steering wheel three times, each punch accompanied with a frustrated “_shit”. _The third split the skin, and a small spatter of blood splashed the windscreen. Having left his glasses behind, Crowley reached for an extra pair. As he did so, he met his own serpent gaze in the rearview mirror. No matter how much time passed, what clothes he wore, or how he styled his hair, those eyes always looked back from his reflection.

The anger was replaced with the absolute, all-consuming pit of sorrow and sadness he had felt since his Fall. Even in the best of moods, he drove with reckless abandon. Tonight was no exception.

The rain had picked up into a downpour that saturated his clothing by the time he had made it to the entrance of his building. Doors opened with a snap of fingers, and he only stopped when he stood dripping in his bathroom. Sunglasses clattered to the tiles underfoot, permitting him to meet his own gaze again.

“That’s it, Crowley. Not only did you muck it up and Fall, but you’re a pathetic demon, who can’t even get demon-ing right.” For a moment, he saw the angel’s blue eyes, the way they lost their smile. “You had a wonderful evening, you and your best friend enjoying yourselves, and instead of just letting it _be_, you went and mucked it up. As always. That’s what you do, Crowley. _You fuck everything up.” _He was staring at his own snake eyes again. Leaning nearer to the mirror, his weight was supported with the grip he took on the edges of the sink. “Should I apologize? No. After all, _you_ don’t deserve forgiveness.” His shoulders slumped dejectedly. _That’s what I am. Unforgiveable._

“Why can’t I be just a little like him? A little nicer… a little…” He sneered at his reflection, disdain souring his words. “…_gentler_… a little bit more caring of _anyone_, but m’self?” His reflection blurred and his thoughts wandered back to The Garden. The sun had made Aziraphale’s pale curls as bright as the flaming sword he had given to the humans. How curious he had been; still was. He hadn’t given the sword for any reason other than concern for the humans, consequences to himself be damned. He had fallen for the angel in that moment, there was no doubt.

His thoughts shifted to a more recent memory, and the pressure in his chest was so tangible that Crowley attempted to rub the ache away. The sensation was nothing in comparison to what he had felt when he had found The Bookshop in flames, and Aziraphale gone. The demon thought he had lost him for all eternity... for the first time in six millennia, Crowley truly lost all hope of ever seeing his best friend again. His hand returned to the marble sink, fingers dimpling into the surface under the immense pressure of his grip. The feeling of the recent loss swamped him, and he groaned under the weight of it.

“Even when he was being a bit of a bastard, he was still kind, and good.” _Evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction_. Did the echo of Aziraphale’s words confirm that he was innately evil? “How could I make it up to him?”

His internal reflection shifted to St. James Park. _For Satan’s sake, how ridiculous he had looked feeding bloody ducks. Ridiculous and endearing… _as he had _fraternized_ with a demon. “What did I expect? I’m a God Damned bloody demon. What could I possibly have to offer him?” His body temperature had been steadily climbing as his mood continued to darken. “How can I expect him to put all of his angel-ness aside for _a demon?_” He was drawn back to the present and as he glared at his reflection the glass vibrated. “I don’t fucking deserve him. I’ll never be _good_ enough for him… not in all of eternity. I’m _poisonous._” The angel was the purest being in all of the universe. Crowley loved him fiercely for it. His chest heaved with the habit of breathing. The self-loathing, yearning, and frustration exploded out of him in a primal bellow that contained centuries of unspoken emotions.

The mirror didn’t shatter. Under the heat of the demon’s glare and the ferocity of his vocalized torment, the mirror gave way into a small river of molten-hot glass. As it oozed down to form a cataclysmic puddle on the floor, Crowley fell back several steps. Drained, he dropped to his knees, chin to his chest.

“No. _No_. I can’t do that to him. I _won’t _do that to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	2. Advice From a Retired Jazebel and Former Psychic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

In the past, both Aziraphale and Crowley respectively had spent decades, even centuries, without existing alongside one another. It has been precisely three weeks, four days, fourteen hours, and thirty-one minutes since Crowley’s unexpected departure. The demon had attempted a form of reconciliation twelve times, all of which were a most stupendous flop. He had driven past the shop, slowed to park the Bentley, but inevitably continued past.

In moments of solitude, Aziraphale analyzed That Night from every direction. Where had it precisely gone wrong? This was one of those such moments. His gaze traveled to the clock – 5.31. The old, worn chair creaked beneath him as he leaned back, then sat upright once more. Fingertips traced along a scar in the wood of his desk, free hand reaching for his cup of tea – Chamomile, with a splash of cream and honey. He was quite worried about his dearest friend. The tea was still warm, but it did little to calm him.

“Oh… _fiddlesticks_.” He sighed. Delicate china tinkled as the cup was returned to saucer. He picked up the receiver of his telephone, left index finger hovering over the dial. He deliberated over returning the handset to its cradle. Instead, he rotated the dial for the memorized number. He waited. Absently, a pencil was plucked from atop a stack of papers, and rolled between thumb and forefinger.

“Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”

Dejected, the handset was returned. Another glance at the clock – 5.33. Time was crawling past.

“Right. Jolly good.” The pencil was placed back atop the stack of papers for later use. Perhaps a walk in fresh air would do him good. The hem of his waistcoat was tugged down, and any wrinkles smoothed from the fabric as he rose and crossed to the door with its **closed** sign.

Aziraphale eventually found himself standing at the stoop of the now retired Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, and Madame Tracy. They hadn’t yet found a bungalow agreeable to both of them. The buzz of the doorbell for Madame Tracy’s flat announced visitation. He waited with hands clasped behind him, right thumb worrying over opposing knuckles.

“Mr. Aziraphale, dearie me! How lovely to see you!” The door was opened wide enough to permit him to pass. A pause allowed Madame Tracy to lead the way. “Madame, I do hope it isn’t too late for a visit. I can return at another time that would be more amenable for you…” He trailed off as she opened the door to her flat. “Oh, Heaven’s no.”

“Who is it?” The Scottish brogue of Sergeant Shadwell called from the recliner he was comfortably settled in.

“It’s Mr. Aziraphale.” It was apparent how pleased she was that they had a guest.

“Who?”

He entered the flat behind Madame Tracy, tone light and teasing. “The Southern Pansy.”

Mr. Shadwell had been reading the newspaper. As Aziraphale descended the stairs, he folded down a corner of it to glare at the pale haired man. A wiggle of his fingers in a polite wave to the retired Witchfinder Sergeant.

“I’m goin’ out. I’ll be back later, woman.” The newspaper was folded hastily, and tossed into the chair he climbed out of. As he passed, he glowered further at Aziraphale, but pressed a kiss to Madame Tracy’s cheek. The door slammed closed behind him.

The kiss had been brief but reflected Shadwell’s affection for the woman. A pang of loneliness and _longing_.

Madame Tracy, who had retired from the psychic business after The Not End of the World, pulled a seat out from the table. “What can I do for you, dear?”

With great care, he sat in a manner so as not to wrinkle his coat, posture rigid. His hands laid in his lap, though they remained restless, fingers tracing hesitantly along the worn hem of his vest.

“Well, you see…” His gaze lowered to the table, a moment taken to try to organize his thoughts.

“Ah. I do see. How about some tea?” This was asked as she crossed to the stove to put the kettle on.

“Oh, that would be splendid, thank you.”

“So what is it that troubles you?” Compassion softened not only her expression, but also her voice.

“Well, as it happens. I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this.” A lace doily held his gaze for a moment, before he peered bashfully up at the human. She had returned to the table while the water warmed. His hands folded atop the table, an attempt to mask his nerves. Fingers didn’t remain still, and instead traced along lace fabric. “It’s about Crowley, and well, I can’t exactly discuss the situation _regarding _him, with him… not that I’m presently able to speak to him at all. I believe he’s avoiding me.” His gaze dropped, hiding the vulnerability. “I’ve been to places we usually go together… and obviously he’s not there… but I still hope that I’ll see him.”

His hand was stilled and covered by Madame Tracy’s as she reached across the dinette. She offered him an encouraging smile when he lifted his attention. “A lover’s spat?”

He could feel a flush of heat rise from his throat and color his cheeks red. “O-oh, my… nothing so… so serious. Just a… a… a quarrel amongst f-friends. I… I think.”

Madame Tracy’s look was a knowing one, and the angel’s blush only deepened. It had slipped his mind that he had shared a body with the woman, something that had made it impossible to hide his affection for Crowley.

He attempted to redirect the conversation. Aziraphale had looked at it from every angle and still hadn’t been able to place the precise moment where things had gone awry. “I’m not certain what I’ve done. We’ve gone decades without speaking, but it hasn’t felt like this _ever_. And he’s never deliberately… well, avoided me.”

“Tell me what happened. Maybe we can figure this out together.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, then removed her own.

His fingers resumed their tracing of the delicate lace and he took a steadying breath. “We were having such a lovely time, really. I must have done something truly appalling, but he won’t take my call to allow me to make amends…” His detailed account of a night that was meant for pleasant festivities was shared and how it had left Aziraphale more befuddled than ever before.

The tea had been served, and once the angel had fallen silent, Madame Tracy sat back in her chair, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Well, dear, that is quite the predicament.” Her attention shifted to a point just beyond his left shoulder. If he hadn’t been so distracted, he may have sensed the subtle shift in the air, like static prior to a lightning storm. The retired psychic gave the slightest of nods in assent. Ever since her possession by Aziraphale… things hadn’t quite returned to normal. Though she was now a retired psychic, the door to the ethereal world hadn’t closed. Her gaze returned to Aziraphale. “Have you gone to his flat?”

“Ah, well, no. I’m afraid I haven’t. That might be a bit too forward.” A small sip of tea, grateful for its soothing warmth.

“Well, I think,” her voice rose slightly, confident in her assessment of the situation. “I think that maybe you should pop over there. Perhaps take him a plant.”

At last, he perked up, though the precision of Madame Tracy’s suggestion was lost on him. He was too enthused. “Yes! Yes, I see. A sort of offer for reconciliation. Yes, I think that would do quite nicely.” The chair stuttered across the floor as he stood abruptly, threatening to topple over. It was steadied before he returned his attention to the human. “Madame Tracy, I cannot thank you enough for your advice, and kindness.”

“Anything I can do for a friend.” Her smile was encouraging, and was met with one of relief.

It was not so much later that Aziraphale stood outside the door to Crowley’s flat. In one arm, he held a small plantar. It housed a young angel’s trumpet. The uncertainty that had been growing daily since they last met was shelved temporarily. His conversation with Madame Tracy had rejuvenated him. He pressed the doorbell once, the buzz a sharp sound in the silence. His stomach was a knot of hopeful anticipation and vulnerability for seeing his friend, and righting things. His smile was genuine and broad, a brightness that conveyed his elation at seeing Crowley and returning things to their little slice of normalcy.

The door opened, wide enough only to allow the demon’s slim frame to fill the entrance. What little could be seen behind him was cast in shadows. The sharp angle of his jaw was in stark contrast with the grit of his teeth. “Wot.” It was more of a growl, as opposed to a question.

Aziraphale remained undaunted. “I’ve brought you a plant.” He used both hands to present it, his smile happy as ever. “I know how you have such a wondrous green thumb, and I… I…” The words dried on his tongue, and his smile diminished. Crowley didn’t move, and continued to stare down at him silently, jaw locked. “I wanted to make amends for… for whatever I’ve done to offend, Crowley.”

His laugh was an unpleasant, derisive sound that echoed off the high ceiling and sparse furnishings. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” Long, slender fingers curled over the rim of the plantar and he stared down at it. _The poor, sweet idiot. He really has no idea_. Guilt clawed at his insides, but it only darkened his expression further. He had been unnecessarily cruel to the unfailingly kind angel.

The door began to close before him, and with no time to decide against it, Aziraphale reached out to brace his hand along the edge of it. He was rarely so bold, but wasn’t ready to be closed out so soon again. _A lover’s spat?, _the question writhed to the forefront of his thoughts. He had glimpsed a depth to Crowley’s emotions the night he had saved him, _and his books_, from the Nazis. Aziraphale had no idea what to do with that knowledge, though. Underneath his soft, manicured fingers, he could feel the warmth of his friend’s hand. He clutched desperately to it. “M-maybe I could treat you to-to... ah… dinner! Yes, I’m certain I owe you one.” His voice held a note of quiet desperation; blue eyes pleading. His other palm pressed to the frame of the door, supporting him when his knees felt so weak. He couldn’t lose Crowley. Not now, not after everything that they had been through. They had come through it in the end, hadn’t they? They were on their _own _side for once. “_Please._” His throat felt tight and raw.

“Don’t you have someone else you can _fraternize_ with?” Crowley’s hand withdrew from beneath Aziraphale’s. The close of the door was louder than the trumpets that had heralded the apocalypse.

Tears threatened to spill, but he bit them back. He hadn’t felt this hurt since the third alternative rendezvous. A palm touched lightly to the door, fingers splayed. “_I love you._” It was breathed on a quiet exhale. “I’ll just… be on my way, then.”

Midway down the corridor, he cast a glance behind him, hoping for his friend to reemerge. He did not. “_Oh…”_ A miracle returned him to the sanctuary of his bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	3. New Acquaintances, and Old Friends (Trigger Warning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning (Graphic Violence, Drugging).  
Please see the end notes for a quick synopsis.  
  
Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

**Trigger Warning (Graphic Violence, Drugging)**

The passage of time and life is the normal progression of things. It has now been seven months, two weeks, five days, twenty-one hours, and four minutes since they last parted ways. Aziraphale sat at his desk, the day’s post before him. Schubert’s _Ave Maria_ was quiet music filling the void of silence in his shop. Round-lensed glasses perched jauntily on his nose. A square, grey envelope was at the bottom of the small stack. It was addressed only to _The Proprietor of A.Z. Fell and Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books_ in black, spidery calligraphy.

Upon its discovery, he traced the pad of his thumb over the writing reverently. Turning it over, the seal was broken with the assistance of a letter opener that had been gifted to him from Botticelli. The invitation was dark grey, with black baroque seamless borders. 

The event was for an auction of curious and rare items and antiquities. It was set for two weeks from the day, at 8.30 in the evening, sharp. “Oh, this is precisely the diversion I need.”

The wind had picked up, and the air had the distinct smell of impending rain. Thus far, it had held off. Aziraphale turned back to the driver of the modern black car to thank him, but he had already begun to drive off. The angel took a moment to gather himself and smoothed wrinkles out of his cream three piece suit. His shirt was the same pale blue as his pocket square. Tartan bowtie completed his attire.

Other attendees were trickling through the open front door of the remarkably large mansion. The warmth inside soothed away the bite of the chill that he had walked through. His exquisite caramel pea coat was handed to the awaiting doorman, and shirt cuffs were tugged smartly into place.

Aziraphale followed the flow of people through long corridors, until they entered a large gallery with several rows of chairs. An elevated platform stood at the far end of the room, showcasing a few of the items that would be up for auction that night. Waiters in white tuxedos milled about with platters of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of bubbling champagne.

“Oh! Don’t mind if I do. Thank you.” Aziraphale plucked up a canapé on a small serviette, and a champagne. While he took a sip, he wandered over to a row of chairs towards the front. The other guests were soon ushered to seats for the beginning of the event.

Indeed, many curious items were sold to the highest bidder. From lunches with important gentlemen, to a camera prototype from 1923, to rare fruits. The most remarkable item was the Voynich Manuscript. Aziraphale leaned intently forward, closer to the stage. He was awed. The fact that this book was up for auction puzzled him, as he last had heard it was in possession of Yale University. Aziraphale debated on letting the manuscript pass… it was clearly stolen. But… if he didn’t, someone else would buy it. It was safer within his possession.

The price was of no significance to a being that had been around since the conception of earthly money. He absolutely had to have it. The bidding war was intense – there were many interested buyers. But, as if by divine intervention, it was the angel who was the victor at the end.

The ground was wet from the rain that had fallen during the auction. Aziraphale stood outside of the mansion, clutching the dark leather satchel to his chest. He could hardly wait to return to The Bookshop, and open the old tome.

“Hi. Just wanted to stop by and offer my congratulations.” Beside him stood a lean fellow with brown hair who was somewhere in his late twenties, or perhaps early thirties. “Charles.” He stretched a hand between them, and when Aziraphale placed his in the other’s for salutations, Charles gave a slow shake that was accompanied with the trail of his thumb along the ridge of knuckles.

Aziraphale’s smile was broad and friendly, the inviting caress lost on him. “Mr. Fell, and thank you. I couldn’t be more over the moon.”

The hold on the blonde’s hand lingered, his position shifting closer. “Mr. Fell? I admit I haven’t had the honor of visiting your shop in person, but those who have been able to speak very highly of your collection. I hear you keep peculiar hours…”

His cheeks grew warm under the observation of his erratic schedule that he secretly hoped would deter potential clientele. “Oh, thank you.”

“Say, could I extend to you an invitation to my home? I have some old familial books that you could take a look at, and we could discuss our theories on the manuscript.”

Aziraphale wasn’t certain if the sleek black car that pulled up to the curb was the same as the one that dropped him off. He didn’t have the same eye as Crowley for the automobiles. The waiting doorman stepped into the street, and pulled open the back door. “Oh, that does sound quite lovely, but, well, I should probably...” He stammered into silence, eager to be in the privacy of his own quarters with a warm cup of cocoa.

“It’s not every day you purchase _the _Voynich Manuscript.” Charles offered Aziraphale a welcoming smile. He swept his arm out towards the car, inviting the new owner of the manuscript to slide in first.

“Well, when you put it that way…"

The house stood alone at the end of a twisting drive. The moon’s glow cast shadows of wicked creatures through the bare, spindly branches of the numerous trees. If Crowley had been there, he might have admitted that the place was _spooky_. Several lights brightened windows, but only made the house seem like a menacing, hulking beast.

Aziraphale held his bag protectively close and followed behind Charles tentatively. Brittle leaves crunched like bone beneath Oxfords. Charles swept the door open, then stood aside to allow Aziraphale to pass. He paused before crossing the threshold. Maybe all the angel needed for necessary sense and sensibility was a little fiendish influence. He stepped inside, and the door closed and locked with a resounding finality.

Aziraphale sat across the narrow end of a long table from Charles. The lad was quite engaging. They each drank a sweet, white cocktail from an old fashioned glass. They had consumed many different types and flavors of mixed drink, but this was, by far, his favorite. His cheeks were flushed. He hadn’t felt this relaxed or content in what felt like an eternity, but had only truly been less than a year. On the empty chair beside him was his satchel. A finger traced over the recently closed manuscript of _Liber AL vel Legis_, more commonly known as The Book of the Law.

“Enlightening read, isn’t it?” Charles was leaned back in his chair, an arm draped casually along the back of it. Brown eyes watched the blonde man intently.

Aziraphale was mid-sip of his cocktail, and chortled. A hand clasped over his mouth to prevent spraying his drink. “Oh yes. Yes, very enlightening.” He wasn’t as adept at sarcasm as his demon counterpart.

Charles leaned forward, arms folding along the top of the table. His movements were fluid, and eyes clear. “Oh, is that right?” A hand stretched across the table, fingers curling around a wrist to caress exposed, sensitive flesh.

“I must admit, I’ve read it before. The man is an absolute char…. sham.” His laughter was uncomfortable, his arm shifting to extract himself from the touch.

Charles stood abruptly, flirtation shifting to anger. “And what the hell do _you _know?” A press of his hand proudly to his chest. “I am a direct descendant of _The_ Aleister Crowley. The man was brilliant! Can you even conceive what’s in the damn book you bought?” His charm fell away as easily as shedding clothing.

“I really don’t think that kind of… of talk is necessary.” Where had this come from? His tongue now felt heavy in his mouth, and he tried to organize his thoughts into some form of order.

“Oh, fuck off. That book is my namesake. Aleister Crowley was a genius—“

“Nikola Tesla was a genius.”

Charles continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “He was able to crack the code. It’s a very specific set of instructions on how to capture and imprison angels and demons! And what were you going to do with it, anyway? Jerk off at the idea that you may one day be able to comprehend even a small portion of it?”

Now Aziraphale stood, his chair toppling behind him. “I think I should leave.” His words were slurred, and his head was foggier than it had ever been, and he had certainly drank more on nights spent with Crowley. A hand braced on the back of the chair beside him, catching him before he could fall.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. You got the tolerance of a rhino, but I think I finally added enough rohypnol to put you on your arse.”

It felt as if standing had forced the drug to course through his blood stream more quickly, though he knew that wasn’t how the circulatory system worked. His head felt too light, and his vision was growing dim at the edges.

“I was worried for a while that I had given too much, and it would sully our first date.”

“No…” Panic caused his pulse to flutter like a bird at his throat. While one hand grappled for his bag, the other gestured. He fought with pulling the image of his bookshop to the forefront of his thoughts, and squeezed his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he breathed a small gasp of dismay. Nothing.

“Oh, no. _Please_, no.” The bag had grown heavy. The tight collar of his shirt was causing difficulty in drawing breath, despite the lack of necessity for occult and ethereal beings. “What d-did… you _do_?”

Charles rounded the table. The bag wasn’t difficult to pry from his slackening grip, and was placed aside. He lost his balance, and slipped to the floor, his elbows catching him painfully. Aziraphale could only stare up helplessly as he placed one leg on either side of him, and squatted down. A scalpel had seemed to materialize from thin air. Aziraphale hadn’t seen where it had come from, but now it was directed at him. With nowhere to retreat, he lowered to his back.

Free hand tightly gripped soft chin, fingers dimpling into skin. Charles leaned in, his mouth hovering a breath above Aziraphale’s. “I’ve never killed anyone so close. They say you can see the moment the soul leaves the body.”

It was a mockery of a caressing touch when Charles rested the sharp instrument against the ridge of cheek bone. “A real pity. If you hadn’t killed the mood, we could have fucked before I dealt with you. Who knows? We still might after.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide with fear. He wanted to struggle, to push Charles away, but his extremities had grown so heavy. The first bite of the weapon into soft flesh didn’t penetrate the fog, but as it was drawn down his face to the edge of his mouth and flayed apart delicate skin beneath, Aziraphale found his voice and screamed.

There was a loud crashing in the foyer, and the echo of footsteps. Charles didn’t have many on staff at his home, but the few he did jogged towards the sound.

“Find out what the hell is going on!” Charles had looked away only a moment, before redirecting his attention to Aziraphale. Fingers cupped beneath his chin, and his thumb dug into the freshly opened wound, following the length of the scalpel’s slice. “Sorry for the interruption, my dear.” And then, obscenely, he ran his tongue up the length of cheek, too near to gaping wound. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Oy!” The growl of that one word issued a challenge.

In a fluid movement, Charles rose to his feet and drew a gun from the holster under his left arm. With no time to aim, the trigger was squeezed.

Crowley’s right shoulder jerked back, and he paused for less than the pulse of a heartbeat to glance at the crimson that welled up from the hole in his jacket. He looked up at the human that stood above a prone Aziraphale, the man’s mouth stained red. Rage was a burning infernal that consumed him. Reptilian eyes were empty, a predator that could kill indiscriminately. The snake inside of him coiled, poised to strike. His muscles responded in kind. He stalked toward them, fury echoing with each boot step. A harsh click of fingers mid-stride dealt with the human’s gun, erasing it from existence.

His gaze shifted to the wall just to the left and behind the human. With the continued forward momentum of his own step, he pulled the man from just behind him with an unrelenting grip over windpipe. The man slammed against the wall with Crowley’s unbridled rage and if the wall hadn’t caved, the force would have collapsed human skull. Feet were lifted off the floor, forcing the man level with the demon, the weight of his glare completely reptilian.

Charles’ hands raised while he still had strength, clawing at the arm that held him. But as oxygen began quickly depleting, his frenzied attempt to free himself grew weaker.

Crowley crowded his body into the human’s, nose to nose. He was going to make sure that his demonic, yellow eyes were the last thing that were seen. His teeth bared with the forceful clench of jaw, Crowley’s words forced through the bite. “What the _fuck_ did you do to _my_ angel, human? Was it worth your life? Better hope so, because I am going to send your soul to the deepest depths of Hell. And I _know _what they do to your lot there.” Crowley leaned close, his mouth near the human’s ear. He was going to destroy him. “I’ve sss_seen _it.” A sharp hiss gave the words weight.

Aziraphale was powerless, his chest jerking for small and quick breaths. Blood was a river that flowed from the burning wound he couldn’t heal. New clothes that had been purchased for the occasion were saturated red, his skin sticky with it. Though his strength was nearly exhausted, he raised an arm, beseeching for Crowley to come to him. He could hear his voice, but with the drugs clouding his senses, he couldn’t hear the rage. “_Crowley_…” His voice was a broken whimper, tears mixing with blood.

The man had grown limp in his grip from the lack of oxygen. Crowley slammed him against the wall again, as if he were trying to jar the dying man back into life, just so that he would be alert when he died. _Crowley_. It was a fractured, ethereal whisper that snapped him back to what truly mattered. His hatred fell away, and was replaced with overwhelming terror. He hadn’t even paused to check on Aziraphale, the reason he had come. The human fell from his hold, temporarily forgotten. Long legs ate the distance between them, and he dropped to his knees. Fingers curled around the hand that sought him out, pressing the palm to his stubbled face. “I’m here, angel.” He cradled the underside of Aziraphale’s chin, and fingers tangled in soft curls to pillow his head. His heart wept at the sight of the wound, a hideous blemish on perfection. Guilt flared inside of him. “_I did this_.” Hand lifted from chin, palm hovering a breadth above the gaping laceration. His touch was healing as he slid it higher, to where it began along cheekbone too near to blue eyes. Crowley drew Aziraphale into his lap, a trembling hand caressing over healed skin. “_I’m going to fucking destroy him._” His voice cracked on the words, though he didn’t immediately rise. He was reluctant to leave the angel so vulnerable. If he had _just been there again_, none of this would have happened. Aziraphale would never have had to suffer unnecessarily. He could have kept him safe.

Aziraphale had been too weak to keep his arm elevated, and it had fallen to rest against blood soaked clothes. He could feel his skin knit back together, though it caused no pain. The drug still coursed through him, and it was hard to piece together coherent thoughts. The hand at his chest moved slightly, just enough so that he could curl his fingers around the thin grey scarf. He clung to it. “You mustn’t.”

Frustration flared slightly inside of him, immediately replaced with shame. _This idiotic angel… always concerned over the well-being of others, and never himself. _

His brows pulled slightly together, though it was difficult to convey the concern that tried to fight through the haze. “The book.” His voice was scarcely above a whisper.

Crowley couldn’t quiet his groan of exasperation. “What bloody book, angel?”

“The bag… said it shows… a way to control… _us_.” It took all of his strength to force the words out, and the tentative hold he had on Crowley’s scarf fell away. Blue eyes hid behind heavy lids. His breathing was slowed, the occasional rise and fall of his chest almost imperceptible.

The gravity of the book finding home in the wrong hands was not worth even bringing with them. Not to mention, if anyone else found out about it, and thusly that Aziraphale had it, would they come after him if they knew what it contained? The sharp snap of fingers engulfed the satchel in flames. The human hadn’t yet stirred. It wouldn’t be directly his fault if he perished in the fire, though it would certainly be no loss. Another snap and the pair rematerialized in the Bookshop.

For a moment, he sat there on the floor, with the angel’s head in his lap. Aziraphale was safe. His touch was soft as he traced his fingertips over smooth flesh, reassuring himself that the wound was gone. “_Angel_,” this was a pained whisper, an apology for letting down the only being he had ever cared for. “_What _did he do to you?” He was unrecognizable beneath the mask of drying blood.

Aziraphale searched through disjointed thoughts, trying to find clarity in the fog. He couldn’t recall what it was that Charles had said. At last, he murmured, “Drugs.”

_That motherfucker…_ The thought was pushed aside. Crowley’s heart ached as he stared down at the vulnerable angel. Aziraphale’s fear and pain had sliced through his drunken stupor, sobering him, and drawing him to the human’s house. “Aziraphale…” His brow furrowed, and Crowley swallowed past the painful knot in his throat. The image was not something he would be able to easily forget. A hand hovered just over his chest, and moved up. As he did so, the drying blood was drawn from the fibers of fabric and skin, and swept away into the air where they dissipated. Aziraphale wouldn’t have wanted to be seen that way. His free arm was tucked under neck, cradling him in the crook of it. He was drawn up enough to meet the bow of his head. Crowley hesitated for the shortest of moments. His mouth was so close to the parted lips that he could almost feel the caress of them against his own with each of Aziraphale’s shallow breaths. He drew deeply of the gentle exhale, pulling the drug from him.

It was a slow draw back to reality. His thoughts were cloaked in a haze that he hadn’t been able to save himself from. But as the moments passed, clarity slowly shoved away the confusion. With his eyes closed from still heavy lids, he assessed his surroundings. He could feel the hardwood beneath his lower body, and a warmth that seeped through the suit he wore – a comforting embrace. His body no longer felt like lead, and his eyes fluttered opened at last. Crowley was so close, Aziraphale could see the fan of short, dark lashes. His eyes were closed, and his brow was drawn together as he inhaled steadily. His heart stuttered in his chest, and fingers fluttered with the overwhelming urge to sweep through red hair and pull Crowley into him. _Please, kiss me_… It wasn’t a fleeting thought, it lingered, the overwhelming longing. Blue eyes traced over the shape of slightly pursed lips, and wondered how they would feel against his own. Aziraphale considered a moment; dare he take the initiative? Crowley’s head tipped back, and his exhale reminded the angel of a breath in winter. The moment was lost.

When Crowley lowered his snake eyed gaze to assess him, blue eyes were gazing widely up at him. His cheeks were flushed in embarrassment, his smile hesitant. “Hello.”

As much as he wanted to continue to hold him, Crowley helped him to sit up. Once standing, he reached down, and carefully assisted him to his feet. “I can’t even leave you alone for five minutes, angel.” A hand lingered at his elbow, should he experience dizziness.

After finding footing, his hands immediately began tugging at his suit. It was rumpled and needed a good cleaning and ironing. “As I seem to recall, we haven’t spoken since I gave you the peace offering. _Months _ago.” He desperately tried to hide the ache in his voice.

Crowley found himself shouldering the blame again. If he had just _been there_, none of this would have occurred. The angel was older than humans, but he was too trusting, and didn’t anticipate people having ulterior motives to their actions. Hands were shoved into dark leather pants, and he rocked back on his heels. “How did you even end up in that situation?”

Aziraphale fell quiet, frowning. He had flashes of memory mixed with black nothingness that frustrated him. He couldn’t recall the exact sequence of events nor everything that had transpired. He _could_ recall the copious amounts of alcohol consumed. “I received this invitation in the mail for an auction. So I went. I purchased an _amazingly_ rare book that’s likely stolen. Then I recall that I met this nice young man, Charles, while I waited for the driver that was to bring me back here. We went back to his home instead and we drank and talked about books.” His frown deepened, and he struggled further to align the evening’s events, and fill in the blank gaps. “…And then I just… I’ve never been so intoxicated in my whole existence. I remember …” Aziraphale fell quiet, and a hand rose to his cheek. Fingertips traced over smooth flesh where he had felt intense, searing pain unlike any other. “…pain and… and a gunshot…” His blue eyes were wide when he looked up at Crowley. “…and then you were there.” It was a wistful sigh. Aziraphale always felt safe with him. He wanted to run to the demon and sink into his warmth.

“_N-nnice young man_? I found that nice young man standing over you… li--“ He choked on the word, and fell back a step, as if he had received a physical blow. The disturbing scene was not something that would be easily forgotten. “_…_Pulling a Dracula on you… with a scalpel in his hand, and you covered in blood.” His ire was beginning to claim him again. He should have killed him. The human deserved it.

Fingertips touched healed cheek once more, horrified. “I didn’t intend to… to put myself in such a-a situation…” Worry began to claim him, and he tugged absently at the edge of his cream vest. He was glad that he didn’t remember the violation. “I suppose you saved me from my… my _stupid_ self again…” Crowley was always there; his very own guardian angel.

Crowley’s look was scathing. Was he really calling back on a past argument and bringing it up _now_? “I don’t understand, angel. Why would you go there?”

The look he cast downward was almost petulant. “Because the one I—“ Aziraphale hesitated, cheeks pink. He stammered uncomfortably, an attempt to salvage his explanation. “M-my _friend…_ refused to speak to me.” His voice was a soft whisper.

Crowley stared at him. He was frustrated, and angry. He had been keeping his distance to keep Aziraphale safe, but instead, he had put himself back in the way of harm. He wanted to shake him, make him see sense and reason. What could he possibly do now? Keeping his distance clearly wasn’t the answer to the problem. Perhaps he should do as they had been doing for six thousand years, and repress the love he felt.

He had expected his friend to not acknowledge the reason behind his actions that night, but he hadn’t anticipated the withering glare. “Oh, why did you ignore me, Crowley?”

The demon groaned, his head falling back to stare at the ceiling. “Aziraphale, we’ve gone a lot longer than that without… without well, communicating.”

“Obviously. But it was different. You were a demon, I was an angel. But as you yourself have said, _quite frequently, _might I add… we’re on our own side. We don’t have to pretend to be enemies. We’re… _friends_.” He wished Crowley would hear the note of uncertainty, the hesitation of classifying them as something as mundane as friends. He wanted to be so much more than that. They had the opportunity.

Crowley paced with frustration to a bookshelf, and stared sightlessly at the titles. _Friends_. It wasn’t such a bad thing to be, really. It was more than he had ever had prior to Aziraphale. So why did it feel so complicated? “Aah, yeah. ’Course we are.” A finger trailed along book spines. “You really must stop doing that.”

Aziraphale remained rooted where he stood. His chin lifted, and he squared his shoulders back. “What, precisely, am I doing?” There was a challenge to the question.

“Yanno, giving me a bloody heart attack… or whatever.” He made a dramatic sweep of an arm.

Aziraphale huffed, flustered. He hadn’t intended for things to turn out the way they had. “I suppose a thank you is in order, then.” He couldn’t help but feel incompetent; inferior. Crowley was brave and strong, whereas he was fainthearted. Gabriel had always found a way to remind him of that fact.

Crowley could see the hurt in his eyes and knew he wouldn’t be able to forget it later when he was alone. He wanted to make it right but he didn’t know _how_. Finally turning away from the bookshelf, he sauntered past the angel. Lean frame was dropped onto the sofa unceremoniously, his arm immediately lifting as he did to drape along the back. Pain stabbed into his shoulder, and raced along nerves. He jerked up from the reclined position, abdomen tensing as he leaned forward. His breath was a sharp, surprised intake through grit teeth. _Fuck_. He forgot he had been shot. Apparently his adrenaline and worry over Aziraphale had masked his pain. Just as quickly as he had sat forward, he leaned back into the sofa. Crowley quickly composed his expression into a grim smile. He could easily heal himself, but he didn’t want to do so in front of Aziraphale and cause him unnecessary worry.

Aziraphale had followed suit, trailing slowly behind him. “I know you said I didn’t do anything wrong. But I can’t help feel that I must have…” His apology was cut short. Already, he had begun fretting prior to Crowley’s reaction. If his expression could reflect any additional anxiety, it did. He was only permitted a brief glimpse in the fracture of Crowley’s composure, before he reclaimed it. “Crowley, what’s…?” Realization lit his features. “_The gunshot_…”

“No.” Crowley raised his left hand, an attempt to alleviate Aziraphale’s concern. “I’m fine, really. Just a graze.”

When he sat next to Crowley, a leg curled under the other, allowing him to face him. The worry had gone, a tinge of confidence replacing it. Healing was something he loved doing. The hand he raised was stilled when Crowley gripped his wrist. The angel was not so easily dissuaded. “Let me help.”

“No.” His tone was flat, dismissive.

“Let me heal you.” Despite the grip, Aziraphale was searching him over. The hole in his jacket was a few inches below and to the right of clavicle.

“I said _no_. I’m fine.” His tone had risen slightly, attempting to end the discussion. He stood now, and paced restlessly, putting distance between himself and the angel.

“Sometimes you can be _so stubborn_.” Aziraphale’s own exasperated words were sharp, and had become louder, as well. He stood.

“Why is it so damn important to you?”

“Because for once I want to actually do something right!” Aziraphale’s exclamation was louder than intended. Remorse immediately shoved aside his anger, appalled by his behavior. His gaze averted, and hands began the fidgeting that he never realized he was doing.

Crowley stopped to frown at him. “Aziraphale, you…” He sighed, defeated. “Go on, then.”

He was relieved. He was completely aware that Crowley could heal himself but… it wasn’t often that he was able to dote on him. It also didn’t help that Crowley was shot because of _him_. Aziraphale moved closer, studying fabric that had become saturated with blood once more due to the exaggerated movements. His palm hovered just above the wound beneath clothing. The bullet that was still lodged in muscles was dissolved harmlessly. Muscle, chipped bone, and skin were mended. The clothing beneath his palm was free of blood and the bullet hole gone. “Thank you, Crowley.” His hand lingered, hovering so close as his head tipped back, _expectant._

Crowley couldn’t have prepared himself for when blue eyes rose to his own. _He wants this_. He hadn’t seen such open longing in the angel’s gaze before… the way Aziraphale’s attention dropped to his mouth. His stomach knotted, fingers curling into tight fists. His gaze roamed the length of him, drinking in how handsome he looked in his cream suit, accented with pale blue that drew his attention to Aziraphale’s eyes again. _We can be together_. Crowley wanted it more than anything, to give in and _be _with him. _We can’t. _Crowley fell back a step, then stumbled. He had expected a post to be behind him, but when he moved to lean back against it, his elbow caught the Roman bust instead. His hand snaked out, righting it before it could fall, then rested his palm to the top of aforementioned bust. Crowley leaned into the hold, feet crossing at the ankles, and a hip cocking as if it had been his intention all along. “I burned your book.” As for a change of subject, it was a disastrous choice, but at least Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him _like that _anymore.

“You _what_?” The smile that had teased his lips with Crowley’s stumble slipped. Eyes were wide, lips parting in shock. “You… you.. _burned the Voynich Manuscript? _That was a… a priceless historical document.” His tone had become quite alarmed.

“How much did you pay for it? Listen, angel… you told me that it teaches the humans how to control angels and demons. No offense, but you don’t have the best security here. I can’t risk having that fall in the wrong hands.” Crowley straightened, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh… how dreadful…” He tried to sound horrified, but the loss of the manuscript was too distressing. 

In an attempt to distract him from his loss, Crowley offered a proposal for another of Aziraphale’s favored past-times. “Let’s get dinner tomorrow. You pick where.”

He mourned the loss of the Voynich Manuscript for a lingering moment before his face relaxed into a broad smile, and he clucked his tongue. “Really? That’s great. Yes. I know just the right place…”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but smiled regardless. “Don’t go getting yourself in any trouble before then, okay? I got demon-y stuff to do. Can’t go getting distracted.” He sauntered to the door.

Aziraphale called after Crowley. “Crowley. Did you know they make the most extraordinary drink called an Orgasm? It’s truly scrumptious.”

The door closed more firmly behind Crowley than he intended. _Not gonna go there…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale misses Crowley.  
He went to an auction to fill his time.  
Bought the likely stolen Voynich Manuscript.  
Went back to a man's house, Charles, that he met.  
They got drunk, Aziraphale was drugged, and mildly mutilated.  
Crowley was his Knight in Black Armor and rescued him, nearly killed Charles.  
Crowley took Aziraphale back to the Bookshop, got him fixed up.  
Sexual tension.  
Crowley was shot, and the sexual tension increases when Aziraphale heals him.  
Crowley realizes that it doesn't protect Aziraphale by staying away, so he decides to try to go back to Just Friends, and suppress his emotions.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	4. When in Rome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

There was a special kind of effort that needed to be put forth for angels and demons to… well as the expression goes, _when in Rome_. Due to his recent engagement with Aziraphale, Crowley was feeling quite touristy.

His dinner with Aziraphale was quickly approaching as Crowley disrobed in the bathroom. The black tub was ready and steamed the air. A serpent’s hiss escaped past gritted teeth as he sank down. It sizzled like cold water hitting a hot pan. The demon sunk down until he could rest the back of his head against the rim of the tub and could have been mistaken for napping.

Morning was just beginning to lighten the sky when Crowley had returned home. Today was not one where he could be idle, for idle hands do the devil’s work. Every moment had to be filled, or he ran the risk of thinking back on how Aziraphale had _looked _at him. He paused in his study, and drew in a deep breath. The smell of his angel’s trumpet was earthy and sweet. Each leaf was lush and green, with neither wilt nor spots.

To support the climbing plant, Crowley had reshaped the wall, giving it the necessary trellis. The demon did not talk to the plant that Aziraphale had given him. Instead, he showed it respect and nurturing. Each vine was carefully and loosely tied and retied to the latticework as it grew. It was taller than him, now. The bulbs of the plant reminded him of the pristine white of Aziraphale’s wings. Perhaps the plant grew so precisely because it knew what happened in The Other Room. Or perhaps it really was the meticulousness of his care.

The remainder of the day had been spent out, doing the most demonic of things. A boy’s ice cream fell off his cone after Crowley saw him push a girl to get ahead of her in queue. A businessman failed to see the brand new koi pond in the lobby after reducing his secretary to tears. A teenager atop skateboard wiped out most tremendously after leaving a dent in a beloved old Bentley. While no physical harm had come to the humans, their pride was bruised. When the sun began to fall toward the horizon, the demon returned to his flat, ready to put on a brave face and salvage his relationship with his… the thought was lost to him.

Water splashed across the tile, and he groaned again. “What the fuck am I going to do?” He vigorously scrubbed his face, then gripped fistfuls of hair. He pulled at the roots, and took a moment to enjoy the physical pain over internal. “Alright, Crowley. You’re gonna go to dinner, and you’re gonna be on your best behavior. It’d be easier for you and him if you find a focal spot and keep your eyes there.” _But he always looks so devastatingly tempting as he eats._

An image flashed, blue eyes lowering expectantly to study his mouth. Water sloshed over the side of the tub, and a leg flopped over the edge. He sank down, submerging himself. _Right. You’ve done this over and over again. Muscle memory, or whatever. _He pushed himself back up, and tried to relax. “Game face.” It was hard to maintain game face, though, when the angel had looked at him so invitingly. Would it really have been all that bad if he had lowered his head and kissed him? He could feel a stirring that reminded him of Rome. _If I can’t have him in reality, at least I can have him in my…_

Absently, fingertips trailed along the curve of his hips. His eyes closed, and he could almost imagine that it was Aziraphale who touched him. Fingers trailed feather-light up his stomach, then back down again. His breath hitched, and his teeth grit when his fingers curled around the base of his growing erection. Crowley could see the longing in blue eyes, and his groan was loud in the quiet room.

This was new, unchartered territory for him, and he felt a pang of shame. _I’m a demon already, not like I can Fall further for indulging in the sins of the flesh_…

His grip moved up his length, and thumb slid across the soft skin of the tip. His spine arched. “_God._” His free hand held the edge of the tub like a life preserver.

Again, his thoughts flashed to the angel. Crowley wondered again, how bad it would have been to kiss him. He could imagine his own mouth tingling as they took the time to taste of each other. If he had been a better demon, he would have drawn Aziraphale down onto his lap and kissed him. Would Aziraphale have grown as hard as him?

Tendons stood out in his neck as he grit his teeth. Crowley’s arm took up a steady rhythm, and his eyes remained squeezed shut as he held onto his _what if_ scenario.

He should have kissed him.

Crowley groaned aloud, and lifted his hips to meet his hand. The water was beginning to boil around him. His toes curled, and he stroked faster. The pressure was nearly unbearable inside him.

Blue eyes swallowed by black, dilated pupils broke through. The demon growled in frustration and disgust. His hand thumped to the bottom of the tub, and glared up at the ceiling. “I was a bad angel, and I’m an even worse demon.” All he had wanted was release, but the thought of corrupting the innocent angel kept him from finding satisfaction in _being_ with Aziraphale.

“Right, well, that was… a thing that didn’t work.” He considered, and then immediately dismissed, watching pornography. It wasn’t that Crowley hadn’t _seen _sex. He had, plenty of times. But it stirred nothing inside of him. “Like going to the zoo, and watching the unicorns fucking.” The only problem now, was that his body still wanted release. His erection had softened, but there was still a tight knot of _need_.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Aziraphale sat next to him in the Bentley. He drummed his fingers in tune to Queen’s _Made in Heaven _on the steering wheel. It blasted through the speakers in an attempt to drown the thoughts in his head. The angel reached over, and turned the volume dial. “You really should have tried the crepes Suzette.”

“I liked the fire.” Dinner hadn’t been bad. That was the problem, though. Time spent with him was almost always rewarding. They should have nothing in common, but talking to him always felt natural.

Aziraphale huffed indignantly. “That was just the presentation, Crowley.”

“They’re overrated pancakes.” His attention left the road, and he stared at the angel’s horrified expression.

“Overrat—overrated…” Aziraphale floundered for words.

Crowley chuckled. “I’m kidding, angel. I’m sure they were good enough to lose your head over.”

“Sometimes I wish I still had that flaming sword…” He glanced at Crowley, delighted with his own quip.

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale again, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

He felt such relief. Things had fallen back into their normal routine and repartee. Aziraphale pursed his lips, then returned his attention to the road. He patted a hand on the dashboard, and used the other to point at the road. “Stop light. Stop light… _stop light_.” He took another moment to examine the angel’s profile, before redirecting his gaze back to the road. “You really ought’a lighten up. I’ve got my own personal angel.”

“You could seriously hurt someone! Need I remind you of Anathema?”

Crowley scoffed. “Wh-what? Oh, c-- right. That’s low. I can’t help it that she threw herself and bike on _my _car. People need to learn to respect the rules of the road.”

His voice was high, a reflection of the unease he felt whenever he rode with Crowley, “I’d say a certain demon should heed his own advice.”

Brakes squealed quietly as he pulled to a stop across from The Bookshop. His head rolled to the side so that he could peer over at Aziraphale, and he turned to drape an arm along the back of the seat. “Maybe you ought’a learn to drive. I could teach you.”

Aziraphale lifted his chin, and shook his head curtly. “I know how to drive, thank you. Learning is unnecessary. I _choose _not to drive.”

“Wot? Tsk, angels shouldn’t lie.”

Aziraphale touched a hand gently to the base of his throat, and cast a guilty expression at Crowley. “I am shocked that you would say such a thing. You wound me.”

Crowley laughed low in his throat, and leaned just a bit closer. “Come on, then. Make a believer of me.”

Aziraphale turned on the seat. “It’s really rather simple. You accelerate and brake with your foot, and use the drive… stick.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the driver’s console.

Crowley grinned and unfolded from behind the wheel. “You’re exactly right.” Arms folded over the top of the Bentley, attention returned to Aziraphale.

“Are you going to come in for drinks?” He was hopeful as he straightened his waistcoat.

“Ah, no. Better not. Early day tomorrow, full day. So much stuff.”

Aziraphale sighed quietly. “Well… until next time…” He hesitated a moment, hoping that Crowley would change his mind. When it was evident he had no plans to do so, Aziraphale crossed the street to his shop, his heart left behind in Crowley’s care.

Bare feet were kicked up on the desktop, crossed at the ankles. In one hand was a lowball glass of 1878 Dalmore 64 Trinitas scotch. He took a long sip while staring wordlessly at the white bulbed plant across from him.

The frantic knocking at his door startled him enough that he lost grip of his scotch. “Fuckin’ shit.” A whirl of his finger, and the shattered glass and splashed liquid came back together and returned to his waiting grasp. The knocking continued as he uncoiled himself from his throne.

“Who the f—“ The words died abruptly, and he cleared his throat. Aziraphale stood with fist raised.

“Crowley! I do apologize, but I have the most wonderful news!” He was breathless as he spoke, and he couldn’t smile any wider. Crowley kept a hand on the door, eyebrows raised. He definitely hadn’t expected to see the angel so soon. If he had, he wouldn’t have been drinking like it was the end of the world.

Aziraphale politely cleared his throat. “May I?” He waved a hand vaguely behind Crowley.

With jaw clenched, he shoved the door open wider. Aziraphale practically vibrated with his excitement. Crowley’s shoulder dropped, his head tipped to the side, and as he swept past him, Crowley helplessly breathed in the scent of him, and knew that it would linger in his flat long after Aziraphale was gone.

The door was kicked closed behind him and he walked with the sway of a drunk pirate in a hurricane towards his office. “A’right, what’s so bloody important that it couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow?” The remainder of the scotch was downed in a single gulp and the glass popped out of existence.

Aziraphale lingered in the threshold to the office, his right hand pressed ever so lightly to his heart. “Oh, _Crowley_…” He was breathless as he took in the angel’s trumpet. It stretched from its large pot across the entirety of the wall across from them, and brushed against the ceiling. The demon was actually embarrassed. In an attempt to hide it, he stalked around the length of his desk, then paced restlessly behind Aziraphale. It was during this pause in his pacing that Aziraphale turned abruptly.

“It’s unbelievably beautiful, Crowley!” Overcome with emotion, he thrust himself at the demon. Aziraphale had never been so forward to touch him so intimately, but he needed an outlet for his joy. Crowley rocked back on his heels, before regaining footing. The embrace was tight around his waist, fingers curled into the back of his thin black shirt. He hadn’t so much thought about it, as his body had reacted of its own volition. The hug was an initial reaction to his burst of excitement, but now… he held the embrace, a silent question.

In an effort to prevent them both falling back, Crowley anchored himself with Aziraphale. His arms wrapped around shoulders, and a hand found long fingers buried into the halo of pale curls.

He had his answer. He sank into Crowley’s warmth, breathing in long nights by the campfire, sweet vanilla, and the familiar aroma of book leather. “_Thank you, Crowley_.” And then silently, but no less desperately, _please don’t push me away… please don’t let me go_. It was a mantra that he held onto nearly as tightly as he held onto Crowley.

His cheek nestled in soft curls, his embrace flexing more tightly. It felt unbelievably right. His frayed resolve to _not _kiss the angel was failing. With the grace that only a snake could possess, Crowley untangled himself, and collapsed into his throne nonchalantly. “Shut up.”

For a brief moment, the world had felt right; he had been home. Now, he could feel the cold return and replace the demon’s warmth. But it had given him hope. It hadn’t been the embrace of _just friends._

Another lowball glass of scotch materialized in a waiting left hand, and he took a hard swallow, falling back onto the crutch of liquor. Aziraphale all but pranced to the desk and by the time he had reached it, Crowley had manifested a chair for him. It was a throne, much like his own, though the plush cushioning was a soft blue. Aziraphale clucked his tongue in appreciation, then settled with posture rigid.

“I presume you recall Anathema and young Newton?” As easily as the materialization of a throne and his own scotch, Crowley played the best host that he could. Dom Perignon Oenotheque Rose manifested in a crystal champagne flute. The irresistible, daft sod actually tittered in appreciation. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, you’d _presume_ wrong. Anatha-salamander who?” Crowley slouched low in his chair, kicking feet back up onto desktop.

“Anathema. You know, the lovely American girl from, _you know_…” Aziraphale leaned closer to the desk, his voice dropping to a whisper and a hand waving vaguely. “End Times… well… _Not_ End Times...” A small sip of his champagne, and he hummed a quiet sound of appreciation. “Well, I received a letter from her. She’s having what the humans call a Baby Shower.”

_A baby shower?_ “Is that some kind of baptism? I’m not going into another church, angel…”

“From what I gather, there’s to be a party with the expectant mother, and there’s to be _games_. Can you imagine, Crowley? Isn’t it going to be wonderful?” His tone held an emotion Crowley wasn’t able to identify. He finished his scotch. Amber liquid sloshed towards the top of it as it refilled itself. “Right. Well,” A satisfyingly large gulp was taken as he searched for an appropriate response to the angel’s excitement. Alcohol was clouding his thoughts. “Have fun with… _that_.” This was enunciated with a gesture of the glass.

Aziraphale had finished his champagne, and it too filled once more. “Oh, Crowley.”

The angel had the slightest pout to his bottom lip, blue eyes quietly pleading, and shamelessly exploiting Crowley’s weakness. Left index finger pointed at Aziraphale. “Stop that.” Half-hearted, a protest that had no strength in it. A groan, and then, “Why in Heaven do _I _have to go?”

“Well, you know…” Blue eyes lowered to his champagne, uncomfortable. “It’s important… to me. Now that we don’t have to hide our…” a wave of his free hand, “friendship or what have you… I want to spend more time…” Another sip of champagne. “…together. I was lost without you, Crowley. You’ve never deliberately ignored me. It hurt quite deeply.” His voice was growing quieter, until the last few words were hardly audible.

Crowley suppressed another groan and furrowed his brow. He knew his apology would sound insincere, so he settled on the next best thing. “Dammit, angel. Alright, fine. Fine. I’ll go.”

Aziraphale finally looked up, his excited, bright smile returning. “Oh, really? That’s truly… it’s just wonderful. Thank you. Splendid.” He stood abruptly, and placed his half empty glass on the desk. “I’m going to return to the shop. I must find the best gift for their little bundle of joy…”

“Wait, gift? _Bundle of joy_?” Crowley stood as well, and followed behind Aziraphale.

“It’s customary that we each bring a gift for the little one. I’ll call you with the information. Oh! This is truly wonderful.”

“Now wait just a min— “ His words were cut off with the shut of the front door. “I don’t do gifts!” He called this out to his empty flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	5. An angel and a demon walk into a baby shower...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

The first baby shower can be traced back to the women of the post-war era, expecting the new generation of the late 1940’s. In earlier eras, they provided mothers with necessary items to excel in their new role. The promise of new life after the Not End of the World had a peculiar anticipative effect on Aziraphale.

He looked as out of place as he felt. A glance was spared at his large watch, before returning to his pocket. In his other hand, he carried numerous bags from the other shops they had been to. Crowley stood lurking by a rack of tiny, ridiculous clothes. Most of the families that were shopping gave him a wide berth. The sales associate at the register watched him uncomfortably out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, come _on_.”

Aziraphale had finally wandered back towards him, but it was only to sift through more of the mini-human items. Hats. He was looking at little pink hats. “Angel, you can’t buy them the whole bloody shop.” Aziraphale gave him a glance, before redirecting his attention to a yellow hat.

“Oh, but what if they don’t have everything they need?” He cast a worried glance at Crowley.

“Then they should’ve worn a condom.”

A quick glance behind him, and when he turned back to Crowley, his expression was stern. “There are _children_ here.”

“Then their parents should also’ve worn one.”

A woman approached, unable to see the heated glare behind dark sunglasses. “Pardon me,” Her attention was on the angel, though she did include Crowley by giving him an uncomfortable glance. “I just wanted to say congratulations.”

He remained quiet, but lowered his chin to look over the rim of his glasses at Aziraphale.

“Oh! Thank you. We couldn’t be any happier over such a blessed occasion.” Aziraphale smiled brightly at the woman, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Oh, how sweet. I wish you both the best of luck. It’s hard work, but so rewarding. I can really see how much you truly care for one another.” The woman gave Aziraphale’s forearm a small squeeze, then returned to her own shopping.

He only glanced up at Crowley for a moment, but there was a longing there that held the weight of years of unspoken love. He attempted to hide his smile by returning to his shopping. “They can be quite endearing.”

Crowley threw his free arm up in frustration. “No. There was nothing _endearing_ about that.”

Aziraphale turned to him, and held up a pink hat and yellow. “Which one, do you think?”

“Neither, they’re ridiculous.”

Aziraphale looked down at the hats, debating. “Oh, you’re right. They need both.”

Crowley groaned in exasperation. “Fine. Let’s go, _love_.” The word was said patronizingly, but there was a look that the angel gave him sometimes. He did so then, and he felt it with an ache in his chest. “Lunch is on me.” Free hand pressed against Aziraphale’s lower back as Crowley guided him to the register. The demon told himself it was to prevent the angel from stopping for anything else, but it lingered a moment longer than was necessary.

“Where’s your gift?” Aziraphale turned to peer in the backseat, but he only saw those they had purchased together and his personal addition.

“Oh, uh… y’know…” Crowley gave a noncommittal noise and fell silent.

He sat back in the seat and stared out the passenger window at the passing greenery, absently tracing along the chain of pocket watch.

“What now? Look, its fine. I got it, okay?”

“No, no. I trust you. Just… what if it’s too much? Oh, dear. I don’t want to offend them.”

Crowley attempted to redirect the conversation. “Aziraphale,”

The angel continued to vocalize his concern. “Or, or… what if they don’t like it, but are too polite to say so, so they feel compelled to keep it?”

He tried again. “Aziraphale.”

His other hand tapped fingertips against his thigh. “What if I overstepped with the christenings dress? It’s so lovely, I couldn’t resist. I thought to myself, why Aziraphale, what parent wouldn’t be proud to have their baby bathed in holy water in it?”

His voice was firmer now. “_Angel_.”

It pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked expectantly at Crowley.

“It’s gonna be fine. If they don’t like it, they can return the whole lot. But that’s not gonna happen.”

The wrinkle between his brows eased, and he offered a tentative smile. “Oh, of course. You’re right.”

“Obviously. But I told you at the shop the dress was too much. Poor kid, taking a holy water dive.”

A sharp intake of shocked breath, appalled. “_Crowley_…”

His grin was devilish. “You’re too easy, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile was pleased as he relaxed back against the seat.

The shower had been everything Aziraphale could have hoped for up to that point. They had played a few games – guessing how much the baby would weigh at the time of birth (seven pounds, eight ounces respectively); What Am I?, a baby related word pinned to the back of each guest (when Aziraphale prompted Crowley for clues to his own identity, “You’re a pacifier” was his response); Nappy Relay, where the party was split into two groups and each member had to re-nappy and re-clothe the baby before it was passed to the next (when Aziraphale passed it to Crowley, their baby’s nappy mysteriously burst into flames); and Onesie Décor (Aziraphale’s was decorated lovingly with the bright colors provided, while Crowley’s was scrawled with _Don’t Shake Me_).

The group was gathered in a semi-circle, Anathema at the head. The gifts from the guests were at foot while she opened them. Her belly was round, and Newton often affectionately rubbed it. The chairs were positioned close together to accommodate the small group, though those seated next to Crowley were forced even nearer to each other with the way he dominated more space than his lean form had any right to do. He was draped comfortably in his chair, his shoulder brushing against Aziraphale’s each time either of them shifted position.

Leaning closer in, Aziraphale dropped his voice. “_Isn’t it all so precious?_”

Crowley scoffed, head tipped towards him, so close he could have rested his temple against Aziraphale’s brow. “_Do you know what’s gonna happen in a few months? It’s not precious._”

Aziraphale huffed indignantly, and straightened back up.

Crowley grinned.

While watching the opening, Aziraphale ate the snacks provided. On his knee rested his saucer and cup of tea, while taking bites of the flan Anathema’s mother had prepared. Crowley had turned his nose up at it, and sat with his arms crossed.

Mr. Shadwell had given a bell, the Witchfinder Army manual, and a silver pin, _Just in case, ye ne’er know._ Madame Tracy had compensated for his gift with a soft, pink swaddling blanket she had knitted.

Mr. and Mrs. Young had given a baby bath in the design of a whale.

Ms. Pulsifer brought a lovely pram that they boasted had wheels good enough to take the baby on nature walks.

Ms. Device had given a lovely deep purple, gold, sapphire, and emerald baby sling.

Crowley had, once or twice, caught Aziraphale miracling away duplicate presents.

“Oh! Those are from Crowley and I.” This was said when Anathema looked at the exorbitant amount of remaining gifts that were all lovingly wrapped in tartan print paper. He had had time to finish his tea and flan and return to see Newton helping open the numerous gifts.

Aziraphale leaned into Crowley once more, worry beginning to slip into his voice. “_I’m afraid I was too enthusiastic._” His hands had begun wringing in his lap apprehensively.

Crowley hesitated, and then reached over, and with surprising gentleness, he laid a comforting hand over restless hands momentarily. _“Nonsense. You were just enthusiastic enough, angel._”

Movement instantly ceased, and Aziraphale resolutely did not look over at Crowley. His anxieties about their gifts were soothed, but now his heart was racing for an altogether different reason. He was only half paying attention to the opening of baby’s clothes appropriate for different seasons, four different sized packages of nappies, a baby wipes warmer, bottle sterilizer, and a video baby monitor. The last opened was the one Aziraphale was most proud of – a white leather-bound memory book, engraved with a gold apple tree on the exterior.

“Aw, guys, this is beautiful. I’m sure she will give us a lot of things to put in here.” Anathema lifted the cover lovingly. Her brow furrowed as she traced a finger hesitantly over the front page. In gold calligraphy, the Device family tree was connected through history, up to the Garden of Eden. “Oh. Wow. I honestly don’t know what to say… _thank you_.” She took a moment longer to study the familial tree, before gently closing it, and holding it to her chest. “It’s perfect.”

There were no other gifts at Anathema’s feet. While she was thanking everyone profusely for attending and what they had gifted, Aziraphale leaned into Crowley. “_Well?_”

Slouched posture was maintained. “Wot? Shows over. Ready to go?” The demon didn’t turn his attention to the angel, but watched the humans.

“_What did you bring her? I told you it was customary._”

Now Crowley leaned in, his own tone low. “_You told her that it all was from both of us. Figured I was covered._”

Aziraphale straightened up in his chair. He didn’t want to, but he was forced to admit that Crowley was right; he had said that.

“Oy,” A thumb jerked in the direction of the stairs. “My gift is in the nursery.”

Aziraphale shared a pleased look with Crowley, who rolled his eyes, before following along behind the others. Before Newt could sweep past, Crowley snagged his forearm, and jerked him down to his level. When it was just them, he hissed, “_If you return any of his presents, this will be the last baby you ever have._”

His eyes were wide, and he floundered uncomfortably for words. Luckily, none were expected, because he was dismissed effectively when Crowley turned away from him.

Crowley remained seated as the human hurried away. He, after all, knew what was up there.

In the spare room of Jasmine Cottage that was to be delegated for the nursery, was a truly spectacular cradle and rocking chair. The gold painted wooden frame was of old Victorian, baroque style – the headpiece matched the foot-end, both featuring a golden painted cherub surrounded by white backdrop. This was then surrounded by a circle of golden leaves and apples. The cashmere bedding was white with a pale gold pattern of stretching branches lush with ripe apples and full leaves. A white angora blanket was draped over the side. The rocking chair matched with the same golden baroque pattern and delicate cherub. A plump white cushion was thoughtfully added for long nights.

The room erupted into excited chatter, but all Aziraphale could hear was the rush of his blood. He lingered in the room after the others had gone back downstairs, worshipfully caressing the lovingly crafted cradle. He didn’t hear the creak of stairs under boots, or the slight shift in the air whenever another entered the room.

His hands were clasped behind him as Crowley leaned in over Aziraphale’s shoulder and murmured near his ear, “_Is it adequate?_”

He turned slow, his sigh a trembling exhale. His heart was full to bursting with love. He hadn’t anticipated just how much thought the demon would put into the gift. With pulse fluttering in his throat, blue eyes lifted to Crowley’s. _He’s never failed me, not once_. A hope crept into him… a hope that he sought another answer for. Fingers touched ever so lightly to Crowley’s chest. The distance between them was closed and soft lips swept feather-light over stubbled cheek, close to the corner of mouth. He lingered a moment, then returned to his own space. There could be no mistaking what it had meant. Aziraphale had seized the initiative, took the first step and now he stared up at Crowley, longingly. “I believe it will suffice.”

_No._ He struggled to remind himself that he shouldn’t, but his body acted independently of thought. Slowly, dark glasses were removed and clattered to the rug underfoot. He felt vulnerable, but bravely met blue eyes. _Someone help me_. The last of his internal struggle dissolved under the heaviness of the angel’s gaze. It was so full of love. Yellow eyes dropped to study the mouth he ached to kiss.

He could hold himself back no longer. Left hand raised, and he cradled the underside of his chin. Slender fingers splayed to frame one side of his face, while thumb swept along jawline. Crowley hesitated, giving him time to pull away. Aziraphale didn’t. Right arm wrapped around his lower back, drawing him closer. Crowley’s slouched posture leveled himself with the angel… and for the first time since they met atop the wall of the Garden, lips met.

Aziraphale swayed closer. Right hand encircled Crowley’s wrist, fingertips digging softly into the dark cuff of his jacket. His moan was the softest of exhales, lips parting. His countenance softened; relaxed and blissful. Aziraphale could feel his anxiety and worries falling away. He was home, and he never wanted to leave.

His brow furrowed, as if pained. When the soft mouth against his own parted, he enveloped top lip between his. Arms trembled, and he straightened, drawing Aziraphale flush against him, his embrace tight with desperation. Fingertips gently dimpled framed features as Crowley resisted every urge he had to push Aziraphale that much further down the path of darkness.

The kiss was broken with a frustrated groan. Aziraphale remained unmoving, peaceful, face upturned. Yellow eyes drank in the sight, burning it to memory. Crowley’s hand fell away, but only so both arms could encircle his waist and he could bury his face in the halo of blonde curls he so adored. It was a desperate embrace, dreading the moment it would end, but knowing that it must.

Aziraphale’s cheek rested against Crowley’s chest with a contented sigh. He was exactly where he wanted to be, enfolded in strong arms and held securely to warm body. It felt natural and right… and as much as he loathed to end the embrace, he found his voice of reasoning. “I suppose we ought to head back downstairs, lest they come looking.”

Crowley held him for a lingering moment, drinking in that impossible scent underneath his earthly one of warm amber, sweet honeysuckle, and the pages of his books. With obvious reluctance, he untangled himself from Aziraphale, and paced to the other side of the room. “I’ll be down in a minute.” His voice felt like gravel scraping against his throat.

Aziraphale bent to retrieve the forgotten glasses, and placed them on the cushion of the rocking chair.

The moment he heard the descent of footsteps on stairs, he sank to his haunches. Elbows rested on his thighs, and he pressed the heel of his hands against closed eyes. “_You fucking said you weren’t gonna do it, Crowley. He’s naïve, a-and he doesn’t know better. He wouldn’t have wanted it if it weren’t for your damned, tempting influences. You were gonna leave him alone, you selfish, idiotic demon._” Fingernails dug painfully into his scalp. “_Don’t you fucking dare corrupt him. Don’t you fucking do it._”

It was hard to pull himself back together, yet as he did, Crowley rose. Sunglasses were snatched from the chair, and his mask of shame replaced.

He deftly handled the Bentley, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Queen carried them through the night.

Aziraphale turned down the dial, the music a mournful melody in the background, and glanced over at Crowley. The muscle in his jaw jumped from the strain.

“Crowley, I’m sorry, I jus—“

“Look, about what happ—“

Both lapsed into silence, before Crowley asked more harshly than intended. “What, angel?”

“I’m sorry for making you wait. I couldn’t leave them to clean up without help.”

His laugh was a sharp sound that held no humor. “What? Are you—really?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, frustrated. He tried again, more gently now. “I’d expect nothing less from you, angel.”

Aziraphale continued to study Crowley’s profile. “Was it, well, _you know_…”

“The kiss? Of course it’s the kiss!” His voice was loud, his anger palpable.

Aziraphale was quiet as he fidgeted with the buttons of his waistcoat uncertainly. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” _Fuck._ “Yes. _Obviously,_ I regret it. Dammit, Aziraphale. It can’t _ever _happen again. Don’t you fucking _see_?”

The kiss had been beautiful and everything he had dreamt it could be. How could it never happen again? “Why… why can’t it happen again? I don’t… I don’t understand, Crowley.”

His voice lost the anger, and was replaced with an empty chill. Knuckles cracked with his harsh grip on the steering wheel.

_There’s no chance for us…_

Crowley’s attention remained fixated on the road as he steeled himself. “You naïve idiot. I just wanted to see if I could tempt an angel to fall in love with a demon. You didn’t disappoint… you are no different than the thousands of humans that have shared my bed. And like them, you actually fell for something that wasn’t there, and couldn’t even see that it meant _nothing_. What a commendation from Hell this is going to be.” His heart was a molten ember encased in ice in his chest. _I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I hope one day, you realize that this is for the best. _

_Who wants to live forever?_

Aziraphale could feel the world unbalancing beneath him. “It meant… meant n-nothing…?” Bile was rising in his throat. He was going to be sick for the first time on Earth.

Crowley glanced over at the angel, and laughed dryly.

_Who dares to love forever?_

His heart shattered like glass under Crowley’s boot-heel. Aziraphale found he had no words.

_When love must die._

He miracled himself back to the bookshop.

His knees buckled under him when he materialized, centered on the rug in his bookshop. For long moments he lingered there, despondent. His hands found his chest, and he tried desperately to alleviate the ache. “_Why? I don’t… don’t understand_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	6. Stars can't shine without darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Poor Aziraphale was in his shop. The sun was shining outside; a new day. It quite aggrieved him that he could hear the happy chatter of humanity just beyond the window. He lay on the sofa, curled onto his right side to face the back. He was confused and hurt, but more to the point, he was questioning all six thousand years of his time on Earth.

The blanket did nothing to beat back the cold emptiness. He had no one he could turn to. The only being that he could connect with had betrayed him so very thoroughly, and no mortal could understand six millennia of love that was broken in an instant. _Had it been a lie from the very beginning? _His head was a throbbing ache that couldn’t compete with the pain in his chest. His eyes hurt from tears shed, but he could cry no more. 

He could hear Crowley’s laughter, a parody of sound that wouldn’t allow the wound in his heart to heal. He could feel the press of Crowley’s mouth against his own, the way the world had shifted into a moment of paradise. _It meant nothing._ Aziraphale could not comprehend what happened. “Why?” His voice was a quiet, croaked sound. He had never, in all of the years Aziraphale had known the demon, been so cruel. _Why did he do this? _

They had saved each other. He thought back onto the night that he had stayed with Crowley after the Not Armageddon. _He had shown so much joy and his laugh had been genuine as they had rehearsed each other’s mannerisms. There hadn’t been much need for practice – both had been surprisingly adept at adopting the other’s persona. The wine had been plentiful, the music a mixed variety of classical and whatever had crossed Crowley’s fancy._

_It meant nothing. _Aziraphale choked on another sob.

The angel did not move for five and a half days. He had shrouded himself in the isolation of his closed bookshop. As time slipped by him, his sorrow began to morph into feelings of contempt. _How stupid can you be? Did you truly believe that Crowley could love you? _No. _No. _Aziraphale had felt something from him. Now, he was going to pretend it meant nothing… _he can’t pretend it means nothing._

Anger was trying to shove the pain of their separation away. _I am an angel_. Despite everything, he was still an _angel_. Hereditary enemies, indeed. He finally pushed himself into a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the sofa. His neck rolled to ease aching muscles. _I am not going to just sit idly by. _He needed resolution.

**A drowning man will oftentimes drown his rescuer.**

The righteous angel manifested outside of Crowley’s flat; a crack of thunder shaking the building with his arrival. A woman’s mournful voice and haunting music filled the corridor. The buzzing of the doorbell and harsh pounding of his fist were not quite drowned out by the song. He didn’t give Crowley long to answer the door. He opened it with a slash of gesture, and it rebounded off the wall behind it. He practically crackled with his rage.

_I don’t want them to know the secrets,_

_I don’t want them to know the way I loved you._

Aziraphale found Crowley slouched in his high-backed chair, one long leg draped over an arm of the throne. His head was tipped back, eyes closed, the demon’s voice turning the impassioned song into a duet. He sang between large gulps of the drink he nursed. A firm jerk of his hand silenced the music.

Crowley craned his head to peer up at Aziraphale with one eye. “Aziraphale! Welcome to my one man party! Have you heard this song? It’s great. Those humans, I tell ya’… they really know how to make music.” A snap of his fingers, and the song resumed. Both eyes were closed again.

_I loved, and I loved, and I lost you._

_And it hurts like hell._

Aziraphale hovered in the doorway to the office, glowering at Crowley. His nonchalance only served to twist his rage even further. Lightning briefly illuminated the world outside. He waved his hand again, once more engulfing them in quiet. “I am going to have a word with you.” His tone was flat and emotionless. He felt the terrible, all-consuming bitterness, but he also felt so very _empty. _

“Just one? I figured you’d wanna have, yanno… a lot more than one. _Ooh_, maybe even a sternly worded note. You got one’a those for me, too?” The sharp snap of his fingers resumed the music that filled his flat, but was produced by the phone on top of his desk.

_Your heart fits like a key,_

_Into the lock on the wall._

_I turn it over, I turn it over. But I can’t escape._

His hands balled into fists at his sides. He had never looked so menacing. Aziraphale did not gesture then. His attention remained on the demon when the device gave a sudden pop, the screen cracking. A small trail of smoke rose from it.

Crowley assessed the broken phone. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic.” He raised the glass in a mock salute, then took a large gulp. His façade remained haughty and indifferent, but inside, he could feel his heart fracture. He hadn’t thought the angel had the anger in him, and it hurt that he was the cause of the fury. _This is for the best. Keep soldiering on. He’ll get the hint and he’ll live a safer existence without you._

“Why?” His voice had dropped low, vibrating in his chest; a tone that Crowley had never heard before from an angel that typically had the temperament of a fluffy bunny.

He frowned at the blank TV, trying to keep a firm grip on his resolve. With the question, his head rolled onto his shoulder to look up and across the distance at Aziraphale. “Why, what?” His tone was carefully composed and dismissive.

Aziraphale continued to vibrate with the wrath of six millennia of what he had found was betrayal and unrequited love. “I _deserve _to know why. You are _going_ to tell me why.” The rain outside began to fall now, the promise of the storm relenting. His knees buckled, and he fell to them. The rage, and anger evaporated, leaving him devoid of all emotions, save for the crippling break of his heart. He felt cold, and couldn’t stop the trembling that overtook him.

“Are… are you punishing m-me?” It was hard to draw breath now. His chest was heaving rapidly as he tried to find air to fill his lungs. He was a being that didn’t need oxygen, yet he was suffocating. “_I’m s-sorry, Crowley… I wasn’t ready, and I’m sorry._” His arms wrapped around his middle, and he began to rock slightly. 

The alcohol was a veil that slipped away. _Are you punishing me? _Though he remained aloof on the outside, it was a painful blow that twisted his insides. How could Aziraphale ever believe that he would punish him for not going, what, _faster_? All he had ever wanted was Aziraphale’s consent. How could he ever believe that Crowley would take away his choice? Crowley fought hard against the emotions that choked him, though his voice quivered wretchedly. “_You could think that of me?_” He felt guilty for the betrayal he felt.

“And what’s worse? Believing that you betrayed me, or believing that you could punish me?” His eyes were wide as he stared up at him; a frightened rabbit watching and waiting for the strike of the Constrictor. Terror crept in and would not cower back, the fear that Crowley was going to tell him to leave and never return, that he never wanted to see him again. “I _loved _you, Crowley. I _gave up Heaven _for you. I put all of it aside… _for you. _And then you kissed me. And I was _home_. And nothing else mattered. And then…”

He was hyperventilating, his words spoken around harsh gasps for air. “…and then…” His fingers bit into his sides. “…you said it meant _nothing_.” Blue eyes were beseeching of the demon to have pity on him, and end his torment. “_It can’t mean nothing._” His voice was a broken sob as his eyes lowered. The last had been said aloud, but it was directed to himself. “_It can’t…”_ His hands dropped weakly to his lap. He stared at them as fingers laced tremblingly together.

And as Aziraphale broke, his initial instinct was to go to him. Muscles shuddered as his mind fought for control over actions, forcing him to remain seated. To remain indifferent. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do… to force himself to calmly sit back against his throne, and watch the absolute anguish of the only being he loved. _This is for the best_… It was a mantra he clung to, trying desperately to convince himself that this _was_ best for Aziraphale. He remained silent, afraid that if he spoke, it would be acquiesce that the angel was right.

“_Without you, there’s nothing else…_ and _I can’t bear it._”

Crowley leaned towards him, now. Elbows rested on his knees and his glass dangled between his legs with fingertips along the rim. _One more push, and the angel would be free of me. _It felt like he was speaking around shards of glass. “Aziraphale.” His tone grew firm. “We can’t ---“ He was cut off.

“Why did you let me believe you loved me?” He kept his head bowed, his shoulders sagging.

“I never told you I loved you.” His voice was neutral, indicating the truth in his statement.

“But you… you did. Not with your words, but you were _always _there when I needed you. You came into a church to save me, and remembered my books. Was it truly all a ruse? Did you only ever want to sway me from Heaven?” Six thousand years between them had never meant to Crowley what it had meant to Aziraphale. “How… how can you be so _cruel_?”

“Just leave it be.” His glass refilled itself when he finished it off.

“I can’t. I felt something from you, I know I didn’t imagine it. You felt it.”

Crowley could feel his resolve crumbling. The harsh edge in his tone had softened. “You _have_ to.”

“_Why_?” He hugged himself again, and tried to assuage his own pain by rocking.

Crowley was grasping desperately at rationality. It was hard, when his angel sat so broken before him. He had caused the anguish that he was suffering, despite that he knew that it was for the best. The fight in him was dissolving. His hand trembled as he placed the emptied scotch glass on the desktop after draining it, an attempt to remain collected. It didn’t work. He shoved up from his throne, and palmed the small glass. “Because I’m a fucking demon.”

“It’s never mattered to me.” His own voice was a plea for Crowley to listen to reason. He tried to repress the slightest wiggle of hope that was trying to bloom inside of him. Crowley didn’t say that he didn’t care for him, yet he dared not to have too much faith. If Crowley broke it again, he was certain he would die of a broken heart.

“I think its best you leave now.” His hand trembled fiercely as he pressed a fist to the top of the desk. His tone didn’t betray him – it was flat, and just as hollow as he was inside.

Aziraphale’s spine bowed, and he touched his brow to the cold floor, prostrating himself before the demon. It was a blasphemous position, worshipful. “_I have nothing without you Crowley…_”

That was it. He had achieved what all of this pain and suffering was meant for, yet…

_…what’s worse? Believing that you betrayed me, or believing that you could punish me?_

_You’re fucking right, because that’s what I do. I tempt you all the way up to this point, and then I leave you crying on the fucking floor. And **I** kissed him. If I hadn’t done that, he would have never known. I should have stood there and shut the fuck up and he would have never known._ With clenched jaw, he flung the glass harshly across the room. The shattering of it was accompanied with his frustrated yell. Crowley couldn’t live an existence where there was even a doubt in the angel’s head that he would **ever** do anything to hurt him. He turned back to Aziraphale, his tone begging of him to _understand_ his motives and make this easier, because Crowley was losing. “Aziraphale.”

He crossed the short distance to him, and dropped soundlessly to the floor. He cupped soft cheeks, his grip harsher than intended; _insistent._ He forced Aziraphale to lift his head up to meet yellow eyes. “Angel.” His voice held strength again. “We _can’t._” For the first time, he was able to see him closely. His eyes were red and swollen, and the saddest he had ever seen them. _This is so unfair. If I hadn’t Fallen, there would be no hesitation. We could be together without complication._

Aziraphale’s grip was hard when his fingers curled around one of Crowley’s wrists. He looked terrified. “_Don’t make me leave_.”

There had to be another path to take to push Aziraphale away, without him thinking that he would ever betray him. A horrendous idea formed. It was twisted, and he loathed the thought of actually committing to it… but it would be effective. “I don’t know how else to say this. I’ve said it every way I can. _You don’t understand_.” His frustration was flaring again, trying to shove aside his compassion. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. This isn’t some kiss in the rain, and stumbling off into the twilight.” He could feel the snake inside of him, awake and hungry. _I need to break this off… **now. **_He released his hold on Aziraphale, and rose in a fluid movement. His boots were heavy as he returned to his chair. Crowley’s back was to him as he caught grip of the top knob of the throne, his hold so hard he felt the bite of pain. He had to find an outlet for his self-loathing. _Damn you, God. Damn you in the way you Damned me._

Aziraphale finally found the strength to lift his head. He could see the demon at war with himself. It was difficult to find his footing, but he stood with what felt like the weight of twelve tons resting on his shoulders. “You may not love me… but I can’t help but love you.”

_Please, God. Let him hate me. _“Allow me to show you just what you’re asking for…” Crowley turned and rapidly closed the distance between them, even as Aziraphale backed up instinctively. He grabbed the lapels of his coat, and slammed him back against the wall. The force of it caused the wall to shudder, and would have shattered a human’s bones. Crowley’s body was an unmoving barrier that the angel wouldn’t have been able to easily shove away. His mouth descended unyieldingly on Aziraphale’s, the kiss bruising and demanding.

Aziraphale’s back collided harshly against the wall, his weak gasp of surprise swallowed in the hard kiss. He was too fragile to put up any resistance. This was the first time he had felt true fear with Crowley, yet his mouth was soft beneath the harsh onslaught. His heart was a hard staccato inside his chest.

The coat was released, and he curled his fingers almost painfully tight around a wrist. The arm was jerked over his head and pinned in place. He was angry and scared and trying hard to frighten thoughts of a happy ending between them away, yet his grip was not rough enough to leave a mark. His free hand dealt with the bowtie, loosening it so that it could be pulled free and tossed aside. His lips moved down the angle of Aziraphale’s jaw and Crowley softened. He was gentle as three buttons were parted, loosening the collar. With the top of the garment opened, he molded his palm to one side of his neck, thumb pressed over windpipe, caressing gently.

He sagged against Crowley, his body relaxed. If he had withdrawn, he would have slumped to the floor again. Free arm remained at his side; he had submitted himself under the demon’s initial aggression. With chin angled up, his breathing was shallow. His eyes closed, and a slight frown crinkled between his brows. _Don’t move, or else he’ll stop…_

His mouth trailed hungry kisses down the soft column of throat, teeth capturing skin and tongue instinctively sweeping after his bite. After lingering moments of tasting Aziraphale’s skin, Crowley lifted his head. He scowled down at him, his voice gravel. “Is this what you wanted, angel?”

His lips still tingled from the kiss, and his breathing had grown ragged. His expression was pleading, and confused. “If that means I get to be with you… then yes.” His voice was soft, scarcely louder than a sigh.

A frustrated sound was growled lowly. His eyes searched Aziraphale’s blue, eyebrows drawing together. In spite of his aggression, compassion gazed back up at him. He had lost this particular battle. The grip he had on the angel’s arm loosened. He cupped his cheeks, infinitely gentle, thumbs sweeping along cheekbones. “_I don’t deserve you_.” This was whispered before his mouth returned to Aziraphale’s.

His arms encircled Crowley’s neck, pulling him that much closer. He held onto him with desperation. The world fell away from him, all that mattered was this moment and the two of them together.

Left hand slid down Aziraphale’s side, fingers curling to the underside of thigh, angling the limb up, and molding it to his body. And as Crowley moved his hips against Aziraphale, grinding eagerly against him, his other hand worked on hastily parting the buttons of both waistcoat and powder blue shirt.

It was a pleading whimper against Crowley’s mouth, fingers tangling into red hair. There had oftentimes been a small tingle of anticipation when around him, but as Crowley moved against him, Aziraphale ached with need. His broken heart was mending and he decided that he wanted more… whatever that happened to entail. They had waited six thousand years. He was finally ready to be with Crowley.

His thumb stroked against thigh through tan trousers. When the last button was parted, his hand drifted down to the brown belt. Crowley was too far gone, he couldn’t stop himself. The only thing keeping Aziraphale’s pants up was the leg that Crowley maintained grip of. His breath was a warm exhale as lips trailed along jawline. Right arm bent up over Aziraphale’s back, fingers tangling into curls at the base of his skull. And because Crowley couldn’t stop himself, he also couldn’t allow them to fall with Aziraphale not knowing just how much he truly cared. With his mouth so near to Aziraphale’s ear, it could have been mistaken for a _goodbye. _“_I love you._”

It was a dizzying experience that brought him to his knees when he blinked back into existence. He glanced around frantically, but he was alone. “_Aziraphale!?_” He was disoriented, and he could feel his heart sink _hard_. The angel would have no idea what had happened. He had finally confessed his love, and he was cruelly wrenched from _his willing angel_. “_No, no, no._” Aziraphale had been left. _I have to get back, I have to get back to him now. I have to get to him…_

“Demon Crowley, _I _summoned you. _I_ am your new master.” He stepped from a shadowed corner.

The words didn’t register as he pounded a fist four good times against the floor, each enunciated with a venomous “_fuck_”.

“I _said_, Demon Crowley, I am your new master! Rise and serve me!”

At last, he looked up. “You! You fucking did this? I’m going to fucking rip you limb from Goddamn limb and eat your liver for breakfast! He can’t save you now, you absolute piece of shit.” Crowley rose slowly, and his knuckles cracked as his hands fisted. Lean frame practically shuddered with rage. Yellow bled across white sclera. This human had pulled him from the accepting embrace of his angel, who had been soft and compliant under his kisses, after being wounded so horribly. _Six thousand _years he had waited. He took a menacing step forward, pausing just inside the circle. He drew in a deep breath, and relaxed his grip.

Charles stood just outside of a spray painted symbol. He stared the demon down confidently. “Oh, sure, you could do that. Well, you can try. Just like you tried to burn the manuscript.” Triumphantly, he wielded the Voynich Manuscript in front of him like a cross to a vampire. For the most part, the book was intact, missing only a few pages at the front.

His rage simmered just below the surface; a snake hidden in tall grass. “How’d you summon me?” He fought to control his voice, to keep it neutral.

“I followed the instructions in the manual with the codex left to me. Now, Demon, enough questions. Our first order of business. Bring me Mr. Fell. We were never able to finish our date.”

“Satan’s great, festering bollocks, I will.”

Charles glared witheringly at the demon, then flipped through the pages to verify the process.

Crowley studied the warding beneath him, then crossed it. His anger consumed him more completely than it ever had before. Any hold goodness had on him evaporated. He had never directly killed a human before. If the humans were too stubborn to heed his advice to run, then that was them bringing ruination on themselves. This was an unprecedented moment, but unavoidable. The man was a risk to his angel’s safety and wellbeing, and the only way to prevent harm coming to Aziraphale was to dispatch the mortal.

“Do you have _any_ _idea_ what I was in the middle of when you summoned me?” Charles drew a gun from the holster under his arm. He could see the unbridled hatred in the demon’s face.

Crowley flicked his hand, and the human’s wrist bent back against his forearm. The shatter of bone was louder than the clatter of the gun as it fell. Charles sank to his knees, cradling his arm and whimpering. A dawning of realization. “Now, he probably thinks I popped out of there on my own.” Hell had come for the human. He closed the distance between them, and knelt down, forearms resting on thighs. “You’ve got no idea how big of a pain in the ass it’s going to be to convince him that… I. Didn’t. Leave.” His blood was Hellfire in his veins, and the tendons stood out in his neck as he bellowed, “**_Willingly!_**”

Crowley closed one fist over the front of the human’s throat, and drug him up as he stood. “It gives me no pleasure to kill you. Well, I lied. It’s going to be really great. Clearly you’re not going to leave us the fuck alone, and I’ll be God Damned…well, again... if I let you touch a single golden curl on his head.”

He hefted him off his feet, dragging him eye level with the grip to his throat. “Tell Hastur Crowley says hello.”

Charles had indeed completed the instructions from the Voynich Manuscript to the letter. He failed, however, to paint the containment circle with the blood of a virgin, which would have held both angel and demon under his command. If he had had access to the front page to the manuscript, he would have noted the explicit instruction that any and all summoning and containment wards be made thusly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	7. Words Left Unspoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

The demon kept his end of the promise and redecorated the already half-burnt dining room. Blood and viscera dripped from the walls and ceiling. Crowley would be lying if he said he took no pleasure in dispatching the human, but it left him feeling as if he had earned the title Demon.

** **

Crowley stood in the middle of the dining room. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat the human’s liver. He gave himself a quick glance over.

A sharp snap of fingers, and he materialized in his flat. He knew he wasn’t there, he couldn’t feel him there. But he had to check. “Aziraphale_!_” He waited a beat for an answer. Silence. “Aziraphale!”

When there was no answer, he popped into The Bookshop. He turned in a full circle, a pleading scream for the angel that he knew wasn’t there. “Aziraphale_!_” He waited, hoping to hear his angel’s voice. A frantic shout grated vocal chords. “Aziraphale, _please_!”

He sat in a pew at St. Peter’s Basilica. His head was bowed reverently, and hands were folded in his lap, knuckles white from the grip. He was seeking solace and solitude to heal his broken heart. His prayer was silent up to Her, but no less meaningful. It was a miracle that the Swiss Guard looked past him. His jacket, waistcoat, and blue shirt were left open over white undershirt, blonde hair tousled. He was in no state to be out, but he couldn’t return to the bookshop. The Vatican in the still of the night… neither angels, nor demons, would be there.

“Aziraphale!”

His head cocked, but the sound had been a mere whisper in ears that were filled with the sound of his own blood. He had thought he couldn’t cry anymore, but his hands were wet from tears that spilled down his cheeks. “_Why is this happening?_” He looked Heavenward, trying to decipher Her ineffable and unknowable reasons.

“_Aziraphale!_” Louder, more insistent now. The Swiss Guard weren’t keen on the idea of a man screaming desperately in the deserted square in either day or night. Crowley gave them little thought with his impatient snap that froze them from reaching him. “_Aziraphale! Please! I’m so sorry!_”

He didn’t move. His chest was heaving again. “_What do you want from me_?” It was a broken plea. As an angel, he was meant to blindly follow. But if She wanted that, why had She given him the ability to have an opinion on the merits of what _he _believed were right and wrong?

“_Aziraphale! Please! I love you!_ _I didn’t mean to hurt you!_”

His body was numb as he rose. He felt like an empty shell wandering aimlessly down the corridor, but a simple gesture of his hand opened large doors. He stopped when he no longer stood on consecrated ground.

Crowley was illuminated in a pool of shifting red and blue lights. Humans stood in various positions, still and unmoving. “_Aziraphale_.” It was a relieved sigh. All pretense that the kiss had meant _nothing _to him was gone. He ran. When the distance between them was closed, he wrapped his arms around him and pulled Aziraphale fiercely against his body. “Aziraphale. I am so sorry. I am _so, so sorry_.”

He didn’t move. His voice was dull, despondent. “What are you doing here, Crowley?” His arms remained loose at his sides. He wasn’t filled with reassurance when he was held against him. He wasn’t certain if Crowley was going to leave him again, or if this was part of Crowley’s game. How much did he really, truly know about Crowley? “No.” Aziraphale pulled away, taking a step across that invisible line that truly divided them, reclaiming a position on consecrated ground. “Who _are _you, Crowley?”

That hurt. He fell to his knees, arms lifted slightly, prayerfully, a sinner begging for absolution. He stared up helplessly. _I fucked up._ He had been desperately trying to shelter Aziraphale, to force him in the direction that Crowley felt was best, and as it had always done, it failed tremendously. “Aziraphale, I have never been so sorry about anything in my entire existence. Please, Aziraphale. I love you.”

It was a quiet, sharp intake of breath, and he withdrew a step further. “How can you possibly say that?” Though he hurt terribly, hope rekindled for a brief flash before it was doused once more.

“Aziraphale, I have loved you from the moment I saw you.” He stood with an instinctive step towards him, then falling back. “I will walk through this whole bloody church if that means you will just _listen _to me.” A sweeping gesture.

Indecision flickered across his features. Crowley had been in quite a lot of pain in 1941, and as upset as he was, Aziraphale would never want to hurt him. He began to soften, but inevitably strengthened his resolve, fighting against the fluttering of hope. A step forward was taken as an offering to meet him, but he remained on consecrated ground. He needed

Crowley did not hesitate to close the distance between them. His expression remained impassive as he stood, unflinching. There was scarcely a flicker of pain in his eyes, though it felt as if the ground beneath them was molten cement, radiating up his legs, stretching fingers of pain through his chest, and higher. A droplet of sweat trailed down red serpent. “I’ll explain everything, can I please take you somewhere else?” Crowley couldn’t hide the tremble of his hands as he cupped Aziraphale’s jaw, anchoring himself to the angel. The slightest furrow to his brow as he attempted to search blue eyes and determine what was going through his head, but Aziraphale looked just past him. His _yes _was a curt assent to go with Crowley.

The humans were freed when demon and angel departed The Vatican.

They materialized on a walkway near the water’s edge of the Tiber River. The moon reflected as clearly as a mirror in the gentle ripples of water. Aziraphale was doubting, and it hurt. “Do you know what kind of position you’ve put me in? You are the one I’ve chosen above all else, the one I’ve put all of my Faith in… and now I’m doubting even you, and I hate myself for it. I don’t know which I want more… for you to be truthful, or for you to lie to me and let me believe there’s hope for us, when there is none.” He was teetering on the precipice of indecision, wanting desperately to believe what Crowley was telling him now, but he had to steal himself for the possibility of further dishonesty.

He gave Aziraphale space, but he couldn’t stay still. He prowled the length of the river’s edge, his hands shoved in his pockets. Crowley drew short, and spun to face him, then paced closer. His hands lifted, hovering just above Aziraphale’s shoulders, desperately wanting to draw him into his chest for the reassurance of touch. “Aziraphale, look…” His arms dropped with a frustrated groan. He resumed his pacing. “As it turns out, I didn’t end up burning your book. Well, not completely anyway.”

“You left me.” His voice remained flat and quiet.

“I didn’t leave you. The human had figured out how to make a summoning circle. I had _no choice_.” He stopped, and again turned to Aziraphale.

His eyes closed, and he breathed the softest of exhales. It was a resigned sigh. “I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”

That stung, almost a physical blow. “I’m so sorry about that, Aziraphale. I just wanted to protect you.” “What were you trying to protect me from?” His expression and tone were carefully neutral. Aziraphale stood unnervingly still, for once not anxiously fidgeting.

“Me, Aziraphale.” Incredulously. How could the angel not _see _that, already? Crowley fell to his knees before him. “I’m _so stupid_. I thought I could protect you.” He wrapped his arms tight around Aziraphale’s waist, face pressing against his soft middle. “I don’t… I don’t want you to become like me. I’m a demon... I’m a hopeless cause. But you? You’re t-t-this _beautiful_ fucking wholesome creature. Everything you do is with t-t-this goodness. You don’t give a damn what happens to you, not when you believe it’s the right thing. And I can’t watch you Fall, Aziraphale.”

God help him, he was softening. Fingers swept through his red hair, gentle and reassuring. He remained quiet, teeth clenching.

“I-I never… _meant_ to Fall, y’know? I didn’t get a choice.”

Aziraphale remained silent, afraid that if he interrupted, it would derail Crowley. They had never discussed his Fall, not truly. It had always been brushed aside as if it were an insignificant event. He continued to comb back Crowley’s hair.

“And you know what’s just hilarious? I’m a terrible demon. I don’t want to hurt them. Hell is a miserable place, and demons just pop up here and corrupt people who could be _saints_, and condemn them.” Crowley clutched him more desperately. “I wake up every day, _praying _that They’ll take me back into Their Light. But I’m unforgivable… I try _every day_ to have even a small sliver of the virtue that you have and it never works. Demons are a corruption, and _I don’t wanna be your downfall._”

“You’re far too unkind to yourself.” His voice remained quiet, but emotion stirred behind the words.

“Even after everything we’ve been through, you’ve never been anything except Aziraphale. You are more pure than every damn angel in Heaven put together, do you understand that? But I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.” He tried to laugh, but it was a hollow sound. “I’d rather drink holy water over condemning you to Hell. But I’m selfish enough that I can’t bear losing you again.” His head tipped back, yellow eyes pleading as they met blue at last. “Please don’t make me choose, Aziraphale. Because I… _I can’t.”_

Aziraphale’s expression openly reflected the moment that understanding dawned, and then was replaced with compassion. He couldn’t imagine how hard it had been on Crowley to try to push him away – he had tried it in 1862, and it hadn’t gone how he had wanted. The ache in his chest was fading, and he felt guilty for ever doubting Crowley’s intentions. “Crowley, you are so much more than this lie you are telling yourself.” He had always been there for Aziraphale when needed, for whatever he needed. He would try to return that in kind. “ I’m the angel I am now _because _of you, not in spite of you.”

Burying his face into Aziraphale’s stomach again, Crowley groaned quietly. _He’s going to Fall, and he won’t understand. He will have to endure an eternity of torment, and he couldn’t possibly survive it._ He wanted things to return to how they had been, the two of them existing harmoniously alongside each other… Aziraphale _safe._ “Aziraphale… you know we can’t, right? You _must_ do. Tell me you understand.”

“I admit that we cannot know The Ineffable Plan. Perhaps this is part of it?”

“Angel, no… that’s not…” Crowley was begging. He wasn’t strong enough to be the voice of reason alone.

“It’s going to be alright, Crowley. No matter what happens, as long as we stand together, we can endure any tribulations that Heaven and Hell may have for us. And should I Fall, I know you’ll be there to catch me.”

Crowley hoped that it would never come to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	8. The Original Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

The two had walked silently alongside one another, each lost to their own thoughts. Their hands were joined, a reassurance that the other was still present. They hadn’t realized how late the day had grown. It has been said that Paris is the city of love, but to find authentic romance, one must visit Rome.

Aziraphale quietly mused aloud, “I’m feeling peckish…” The sun was warm on his face, and he slowed to a halt. Air filled his lungs as he drew in a deep breath.

“Listen… angel. If we’re gonna do… this…” Crowley lifted their hands, fingers threaded together, “then you’re going to have to give me some warning.”

“_I am having a moment here._”

Crowley scowled.

Aziraphale gave a light squeeze to his hand, then resumed his unhurried stroll down cobblestone streets toward Per Me. “I’ve been wanting to pop in here since it opened, but it was difficult with, you know,” a wave of his free hand, “Armageddon.”

“Well lucky for us, a table just opened up.”

With his chair at an angle to the table, Crowley lounged comfortably, an arm hanging along the back. His right leg was cocked up, the left stretched out into the walkway. Though he was relaxed, he was ever vigilant, watching those that passed by.

Aziraphale’s posture remained rigid as he dabbed the cloth serviette to the corner of his mouth. The waiter returned to retrieve the dish cleaned of the main course –Roasted White Grouper and viginaroya atop seafoam. He smiled politely up at the man, and thanked him. Each of the three courses – a starter of Roasted Cuttlefish with sea urchins, the bagna cadua, and Jerusalem artichoke; the first course of Cappeliacci Guinea Fowl, cesanese butter, vegetables, and smoked pecorino -- had been paired brilliantly with a wine suggested by the finest sommelier in all of Rome.

The scotch he had been nursing while Aziraphale ate was swirled thoughtfully. “Is this one of Famine’s establishments? For the prices you’re paying, you’d be better off just going hungry.”

Aziraphale scoffed as he returned the white cloth to his lap. “Not everything is about size, Crowley.”

An eyebrow cocked, “Sometimes it is,” was mused aloud into the glass he had raised. “What’s that ya’ got there, angel?”

“This is The Original Sin. It is a singular apple experience, crafted by the skilled hands of Giulio Terrinoni.” The new flavor of wine was brought up, a breath of its aroma. “Oh, my.” A small sip, the liquid swirled to cleanse his palate.

“I always wanted to try that, but figured it would’ve been a bad time.” Crowley stretched across the table, plucked up the apple shaped caramelized centerpiece, and popped it in his mouth.

“Wa—no!” Aziraphale’s jaw dropped in shock.

“Told you I couldn’t risk you Falling, angel.” Crowley’s grin of satisfaction was imperceptible.

“Oh, you… you cheeky little devil.” Aziraphale flushed, and smiled into his wine.

Satisfied with his meal, Aziraphale reclined against the back of his chair, which is to say he kept his spine erect and his shoulders straight. “That was most enjoyable.”

Crowley was jarred from his quiet study of the angel’s mouth. “The sin was quite satisfying.” A large gulp was taken of his scotch.

Aziraphale’s expression was pleased, fingers clasping together in his lap. “I believe it’s your turn to cover the cheque.”

“You wot? Not bloody likely. Last I remember, I picked it up. It’s your turn. Besides, I only had scotch.”

“You had _four bottles, _Crowley.” Aziraphale regarded Crowley over the lip of his wineglass.

The demon grunted, but signaled to the waiter to bring another bottle to replace the empty one. “Fine, but I’m keeping score now.”

Once they were alone on the portico, he addressed his main concern. “Crowley, what are we now? I cannot continue to refer to you as my wily adversary, or even as something mundane as a friend.”

Crowley’s head fell back, the sound in his throat one of exasperation. “Eh, I dunno. Isn’t that your department… _angel_?”

Aziraphale shifted his attention to the street, watching the pass of pedestrians. “You were once an angel… ” His voice was a soft reminder. “But if you _are_ suggesting… what I infer that you are implying… I want it all, Crowley. I don’t want us just popping in and out of each other’s lives once every few decades o-or… pretend that we don’t care as much as we do about one another. I want to share my life _with_ you.” Blue eyes returned to Crowley, his hands worrying restlessly.

“I’m with you now, angel, but you know we’re gonna have targets on our backs. Heaven and Hell aren’t going to let this,” Crowley swept his glass out, a gesture to encompass the both of them, “…exist. A demon and an angel aren’t supposed to go cavorting about as if it were normal.”

Aziraphale fretted with the hem of his waistcoat. “But it has… happened.”

Crowley’s defeated sigh was one of acknowledgement. “It has.”

“Well, perhaps… _She_…” Aziraphale delicately pointed a finger Heaven-ward, before returning it to his lap, “…will be on our side.”

“Ever the eternal optimist.” A salute of his glass to Aziraphale, before it was drained in a single gulp. It descended hard on the table’s top. He supposed that he couldn’t avoid the elephant in the room any longer “You know once we do this, there’s no going back.”

“What do you mean, _going back_?” Aziraphale looked up rather abruptly. He had been studying a miniscule smudge on his trousers, but now his brows were furrowed in concern.

And then, placating for Aziraphale’s anxiety, “I _mean_… once you and I… _you know_… angel, there’s a really good chance that you may not be _you_ on the other side.”

“Ah, yes. The Falling. But it hasn’t happened yet, Crowley, after… all the things we’ve already done.”

“There’s a vast difference between a kiss and taking…” While he deliberated an appropriate term that wouldn’t completely scandalize his angel, he refilled his glass. _“_Taking _the plunge_. Kissing is all well and good, but it itself isn’t a sinful act. Lust on the other hand, well, that is a whole other matter entirely.”

“Crowley, there is a difference between love and lust. This isn’t just the rutting of some… beasts…” He gestured with his hands for emphasis.

His laughter was muffled by the scotch. “I am a snake, or did you forget?”

Aziraphale’s look wasn’t unkind, but it held the silent plea that he apply the necessary gravity to their situation.

“Listen angel, this isn’t just some idle threat from upstairs. This is completely unprecedented, and you could Fall. You don’t understand what that means. Sure, you can empathize, but until you’ve experienced it for yourself… well, then you’ve got no clue. You’ve never been without God’s love. It’s dark, and it leaves a void inside of you that feels like your heart has been ripped out, and you’ve been left to bleed, and no amount of prayer or begging will ever… _ever_… bring you back into Their light. Trust me, angel, I know. I’ve tried.”

The oppressive gravity of despair was physically crippling. He was emotionally drained. He had maintained his strength for nearly a week, but it was beginning to fail him now. His elbows carried the brunt of his weight as he leaned onto the table, face downcast and brow resting to the tumbler that he cradled in his hands. “If you Fall, there’s _no _going back, and I don’t want that for you.” He felt raw; a healing wound ripped viciously back open. Like a man saved from dehydration in the Sahara, Crowley took a long, hard drink, emptying the glass. There was a slight quiver to his hands as he raised them, shielding himself behind emptied glass. Black lenses were a movie’s screen replaying an image of Aziraphale’s inevitable Fall on a continuous loop.

_He reclined on his side, the angel on his back, sweat glistening on their skin. Their breaths would still be ragged from exertion, bodies sated and spent. And then it would happen. The love and light would fade from his eyes. Black, dark as Death’s wings, would bleed across blue. The angel would turn to him in that moment, tears tracing wet paths as the once beautiful soul would be consumed by Hellfire, plunged into the sulfur and ash… **and he would not survive it…** be it from his unwillingness to fulfill his demonic compulsion, or at his own hands._

“_Crowley_…” Aziraphale’s touch was soft, fingers curling gently along the bridge of knuckles. The warmth of his touch snaked up his arm, and began to unfurl inside of him, thawing the fear that had frozen his blood. “I see the pain this causes you, and I admit I cannot know what that feels like.” His grip tightened on Crowley’s hand, a grounding touch. “But if my choices are to be with you, and face down the prospect of damnation, or… well, I can’t even imagine the other option. I see so much goodness in you, Crowley, that surely we can come out the other side successfully, as long as we are together. You no longer have to go through this alone. I’m here for you, Crowley… no matter what.”

He reared back, mouth slightly agape. Brows raised over the rim of his glasses and he stared in shock across the table at the angel. It felt like his heart stopped. In all of eternity, no one had given him a gift so precious. It was a treacherous, lightless path that he had traveled alone for so long.

Any venom that may have lingered in him evaporated, and he collapsed atop the table. One hand grasped the elbow of the other, nails digging into the fabric of his coat into skin beneath. His grip on the glass remained intact, but it was stretched across from him, forgotten. With his face buried against the folded arm, a shudder wracked his body. His breath was a soft, strained stutter. The emotional pain was choking, and he fought hard against the moisture that was hot behind closed eyes.

Aziraphale’s touch was tentative, but when Crowley did not withdraw, he slid his hand up to curl fingers gently around extended right wrist.

The server who approached was focused on closing up, and was therefore oblivious to the tension. “Gentlemen, I apologize, but we’re clos---…ah, perhaps I should return…”

“I think that’s for the best…” His voice was a gentle coaxing. “Crowley, perhaps we should go?” He reached for folded notes in the inner pocket of his coat, and placed them neatly under the small vase.

Crowley drew himself up, and sunk back into a lounged position. With a slight roll of his neck, he stared down the length of his nose at Aziraphale. His breath was drawn in through teeth, “Ah, perhaps you’re right.” To the casual observer, he had collected himself remarkably fast, save for the white knuckled grip of fisted hands.

Crowley was stretched across the length of the sofa, legs crossed at the ankles. One arm was folded above his head. In the hand that trailed near the floor, he palmed the empty bowl of a wineglass.

Aziraphale retrieved the blanket from where it laid folded along the back of the sofa. After shaking it out, he spread it across Crowley’s length. With great care, he slipped the wineglass free of long fingers and resigned himself to returning to his books. For once, he was in no mood to lose himself in familiar pages.

A soft flutter of fingers swept against the back of pants leg. “_Don’t leave me, Aziraphale._”

The empty glass was placed on the edge of his desk, before Aziraphale turned back to the sofa. He settled into the right corner, and Crowley laid his head in his lap. With his ever-present delicate touch, sunglasses were carefully removed, folded up neatly, and placed along the back of the sofa. Kind blue eyes watched the slide of his own fingers through soft red hair. Free hand rested peacefully against the center of Crowley’s chest, lightly caressing.

“_I love you, angel_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	9. How Many Nipples Do You Think They'll Have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

The sun was eclipsed behind grey clouds. Both angel and demon had claimed their bench. That day, they sat much closer to one another than they had in the past, and Crowley’s right arm draped over Aziraphale’s shoulders. As of recent, the minimalism of his flat no longer currently adhered to his taste.

Through dark glasses, he scrutinized Aziraphale as he finished his vanilla flake. “Say angel, have you put much thought into cohabitation?”

A handkerchief was withdrawn and used to dab at the corners of his mouth. “Well, no… I mean, _obviously_… but I haven’t quite figured out the logistics yet. My shop isn’t big enough for the both of us… but I suppose I could…” Handkerchief was returned to his coat pocket, and he tapped fingertips to the tops of his thighs. “…Well… relocate some of my books to make space available.”

Crowley surreptitiously took note of the few people that remained in the park, before leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. “Ah, angel. You know I’d never ask you to give up any of your books.” He drew himself up, then turned to stretch a hand out to Aziraphale. “Come on. I have something to show you.”

“What are we doing here, Crowley?”

Queen was playing quietly in the background.

_I was born to love you,_

_With every single beat of my heart._

“It’s a surprise, angel.” He was white-knuckling the steering wheel, trying to maintain a passive façade. “Alright, close your eyes.”

The glance that Aziraphale cast at Crowley was perplexed, but he complied. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closing.

Crowley had driven carefully, so as not to alarm Aziraphale. A quiet creak of an old gate, and the vibration of brick under tires. His gaze flicked to Aziraphale, his eyes still closed. The Bentley drew to a halt alongside a small well. An uncertain breath, then he slid from behind the wheel. Aziraphale’s door was opened, and he leaned in to claim possession of left hand. “Keep your eyes closed, yeah?”

Had he planned a romantic evening under the stars? He was excited at the prospect. Crowley placed a protective hand to the top of his head as Aziraphale was guided out of the car.

His right hovered above his eyes. He was unbelievably excited, and nervous. Rationally, this was the next step for them… but was it _too fast_? Crowley leaned into Aziraphale’s back, his mouth a breath away from his ear, voice a quiet murmur, “Open your eyes.” His hand fell away, and crammed into his pocket.

Above the roof of the cottage, the sky was streaks of pinks and orange. Wisteria vines and angel’s trumpets climbed up the bricks, framing a robin’s egg blue door. A rolling green lawn was surrounded by trees, affording privacy, despite that there was nothing around for acres. Fingertips trailed along the lip of the well, as he turned to face him. “Crowley, what is this?”

An instinctive flash of insecurity, “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s perfection.”

Internally, Crowley exploded with excitement, he was practically vibrating with it. “It’s even better when you get inside.” He slung an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and tucked him into his side. The door was snapped open, and Aziraphale was drawn across the threshold and through the foyer.

They stood in the middle of a living room. A hand fluttered to his chest, blue eyes taking in as much details of a space that was a perfect blend of the both of them. Crowley’s sofa from the bookshop stood in stark contrast from the remainder of the more modern furniture and minimalistic furnishings. In a corner was a strangely familiar dove statue, though he couldn’t recall where he had seen it. The wood paneled walls were homey, and reminded Aziraphale of the bookshop. Above the French baroque inspired marble mantle was a rather large television. A bay window was framed with tartan curtains. An espresso colored leather sofa was angled to the side of their old sofa, which was facing Aziraphale’s chair. He turned to Crowley, blue eyes wide. “You would give up your flat for me?”

Crowley had been drinking in each emotion that flickered across the angel’s features. All of this was for Aziraphale, to bring him happiness, and Crowley was proud that he had been successful. “This is our home, if you’ll have it.”

His question was tentative, shamed. As much as he loved and appreciated what had been done, he still found that he wanted another one of his earthly pleasures with them. Fingers teased over the hem of his waistcoat, a physical manifestation of his anxiety. “My books?”

Restless hands were captured between his, thumbs stroking reassuringly over knuckles. Crowley couldn’t hide his pleased grin. He could see the relief that chased away worry. “Come on, angel.” His tone was light and playful as he backed up, guiding Aziraphale with him. He bumped into an arm of their ancient and worn sofa, his balance lost temporarily, footing regained quickly. Crowley cackled self-depreciatingly. He released a hold on one of Aziraphale’s hands so that he could turn and guide thusly.

Aziraphale was grinning. He was full of love and joy. How could he not have been? The being that held his heart had provided them a home that was authentically _theirs_. Aziraphale trailed behind, trying to take in the kitchen that they passed. The room they entered was organized with Crowley’s plants. In the center was a sculpture that was quite similar to _Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss_, with the exception that both were winged men, _Cupid’s _crown of curls was cropped short. _Psyche’s_ ringlets were long and spilled down his naked chest and over the pooling of fabric that draped his hips. A door that should have led directly outside was opened, and they stepped into a narrow, unfurnished corridor.

On either side of the hall, across from one another, were two doors. The one to the right was a plain slate grey. On the left were two impressively large wooden doors. “Crowley… where are we? This physically shouldn’t be here. We should be outside…”

Crowley coaxed Aziraphale down the hall with an insistent tug to his hand. “Ah, angel. C’mon. I’m really proud of this one. Well, shouldn’t be proud. Eh, I’m a demon, what’s it matter?” When they stood before the hulking doors, Crowley snapped them opened.

Aziraphale’s innate curiosity overcame him, and he entered. He hadn’t registered the familiarity of the doors they had passed through. Once inside, he gazed around wonderingly, then rounded on Crowley. His eyes were wide, and he gestured behind him. “Crowley, is this the Bodleian Library?”

Hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, and he rocked back onto the heels of his boots. An uncertain groan, and he stammered. “Eh, possibly?”

Aziraphale was horrified. “_Possibly?_ What’s it doing… here?” He flailed a hand dramatically to encompass where they were.

Crowley attempted to placate the angel. “Well, I figured you love books, and I love you, so I, uh… got you a library?”

Aziraphale swept a hand through his hair. “Obviously. Okay, well. You have to return it. Promptly. Please.”

“Ah, well… I mean, sure, yeah, no. I definitely could. Probably should. But the humans likely already noticed it’s gone. Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if I just… popped it back on over there? They’d go mad. It’s… _kinder_… if we keep it, and spare their sanity.”

Aziraphale still looked unconvinced, but he turned a glance down the walkway. “I suppose if it were a kindness that we keep it… then we must.”

“Hey, there’s the spirit. Plus, all of _your _books are here now, too.” Crowley led the way deeper into the library. When they reached a large window, the moon shone through in shades of silver down on a pale gold, luxurious and large wingback upholstered bed. The bed dressings were a French blue, the numerous pillows plump and inviting. “Only thing that was missing was a good place to curl up and read.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, his expression conveying the depth of his adoration and appreciation. “Oh, _Crowley_. It’s all perfect. Except, for, well, stealing a library.”

“Eh,” He grimaced, and fluctuated his hands up and down measuringly, “I prefer borrowing indefinitely.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s middle, his cheek resting above collar bone. “Thank you.”

He didn’t hesitate when he enfolded the angel into him. He had come to terms with this aspect of their relationship. And as much as he wanted to allow it to progress to the next stage, he still felt the pangs of fear of destroying the one thing in all the universe that was pure and good.

Aziraphale remained hugged flush to Crowley, but he could still see shelves of books. Voices called enticingly from people through various points in history, but he was also anchored to Crowley’s warmth. _Books… kiss… books… _“I think I would like it very much if you kissed me right now, Crowley.”

His embrace flexed a bit tighter, a bit more protective. He was still trying to find the solution that would protect Aziraphale from Falling, without also pushing him away once more. He hoped sobriety would allow him to remain in control. The angel tipped his head back, expectantly, and Crowley couldn’t deny him. Sunglasses were removed and tossed carelessly on the bed behind them. Cupping innocent and trusting features in his palms, his mouth was a tentative caress against Aziraphale’s.

His chin lifted slightly, securing the kiss more firmly. His expression was peaceful, lids falling gently closed over blue eyes.

Crowley broke the kiss, and pulled back enough to allow his gaze to sweep over his peaceful expression, that was quickly chased away with a small frown.

“Oh. Is that all?” There was a slight pout that Aziraphale couldn’t hide, hands sliding up Crowley’s chest to encircle his neck.

A quiet chuckle, and he swept his thumb along the swell of bottom lip. “I guess not. But, angel, listen. I’m not saying anything is going to happen today, or tomorrow, or even a month from now… but if it at any point you feel overwhelmed and want to stop, I expect you to tell me. I don’t ever, _ever_, want you to feel like you have to do something because you think I expect it.”

His expression only softened further. “You really do have so much kindness in you, Crowley.”

Rather than arguing, Crowley kissed him again. A hand slipped back to bury fingers in blonde curls and cup the back of Aziraphale’s skull, while the other slid down his throat.

His lips parted with his quiet sound of approval. Crowley’s tongue dipped out, and traced gently along bottom lip, teasing against sensitive skin. The quiet moan that hummed in the back of his throat was quiet desperation.

Crowley’s brows drew together in a frown, and he had to shove down the wave of excitement. Expert fingers loosened the bowtie, tugged it free, and let it slip to the floor. The top three buttons were parted before his hand returned to rest just under the curve of jaw. He pressed forward, and teasingly caressed the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue. Crowley’s mouth was soon a trail of kisses along his jaw, and with great gentleness, he used his grip in blonde hair to lift chin and permit more access to the throat he had previously exposed.

“_Oh_, Crowley…” The kisses were soft, and accompanied with the occasional tease of tongue. Crowley pulled the collar of the shirt aside, and his mouth teased at the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat. Fingers curled into red hair, a quiet whimper of “_please_”. His body was already aching with a need that only Crowley could satiate.

The phone he had had to miraculously fix vibrated in a front pocket. The buzz of it was almost drowned by the angel’s soft sounds. Crowley could ignore it, and planned to do so.

The quiet buzzing and vibration against his hip cleaved through the fog of need. “Crowley, w-what’s that?”

He lifted his chin, and slanted his mouth softly against Aziraphale’s, silencingly.

He sank into him again, soft and pliant under the kiss – until another buzzing. He withdrew enough to prompt again, a frown crinkling between his brows. “Crowley?”

“Phone call. Not important. Everyone I care about is here.” He leaned forward, a chase for Aziraphale’s mouth.

“It very well could be. Why else would they call?”

“Eh, telemarketers?”

“Crowley…”

Resigned, he untangled himself from Aziraphale. The phone was retrieved from leather pants.

“Wh—“ He had to clear his throat, and try again, but this time with more venom to the question. “Wot?”

“Oh thank god. Crowley. It’s Newton.”

“Who?” His voice conveyed his impatience and irritation.

“Newt… you know, y-y-you came to our baby shower.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Okay. Tell me how you got this number, and then delete it.”

“Oh, ah. Aziraphale gave it to me in case of an emergency. And, well, it’s not exactly an emergency. Everyone is fine. Great, in fact. But you see, Anathema is going into labor, and Aziraphale was very firm in that he wanted to be here for the delivery.”

“Oh, I just bet he was…” The call was disconnected, and the phone returned to his pocket. “Right. Back to reality. Baby’s coming.”

The ladies, as well as Newton, were allocated to the delivery suite. The men were left to their own devices in the waiting area. Aziraphale was practically vibrating with a combination of worry and excitement. Every time the door that divided them from the laboring and delivery area opened, he sat closer to the edge of the settee in anticipation, only to ease back in disappointment. His hands were restless, and he agonized by rubbing along the ridge of knuckles.

Crowley was kicked back, his wiry frame claiming as much space as possible. His left leg was stretched haphazardly into the aisle. The right was cocked at the knee and resting against Aziraphale’s. He stared up at the ceiling, contemplating ways his time could be better spent; _getting good and drunk, influencing the humans into harmless yet entertaining situations, listening to his angel talk about his books… making love to his angel._

“Do I really walk like that?”

Aziraphale’s racing thoughts were on the pain that poor Anathema must be suffering from. “Sorry?” The question he didn’t quite catch drew him back to the waiting area.

“Before that sordid business with our respective head offices… is that really how I walk, or were you just havin’ a go at me?”

He glanced over at Crowley. “I would never have a… _go_… at you, love.” He resumed the fretting with his waistcoat, and returned his expectant attention to the separating door.

Crowley reached over, and claimed a busy hand. “Angel,” Lips brushed reassuringly along the soft surface of the back of his hand. “Everything is fine.”

Blue eyes reflected his concern, his leg beginning to dance up and down restlessly. The kiss was a reassurance, but his anxiety was presently a deep well of what could be going wrong while they sat in the waiting area. “Oh, but how can you be certain, Crowley? She’s early.”

He turned the hand over, and traced his thumb along Aziraphale’s inner wrist. “They have an angel on their side.”

Aziraphale breathed a quiet sigh, but popped up the moment a nurse drifted through the doors and hurried over to her. “Pardon me. I know you’re dreadfully busy, and I apologize… see, I know these things take time…”

Crowley watched his angel rush to the nurse. He was aware of the human directly across from them, who had sat in increasing abject horror the longer the angel and demon had sat next to one another.

The moment Aziraphale all but fluttered away, Shadwell sat forward. “_You?!_” The accusation conveyed the entirety of his confusion, contempt, and derision. “_You _and the Southern Pansy?”

Crowley bared his teeth in a grin. “_My_ Southern Pansy.” He finally turned his attention to the human. “You and…” His voice thickened with a mocking Scottish brogue, “_The Hoor o’ Babylon_?”

“’ey, you cannae call’er tha’. B’sides, it’s _retired_ Hoor o’ Babylon.”

“Let ye who is without sin cast the first stone.”

Mr. Shadwell leaned forward, prepared to continue in his tirade. “It’s an abomination, the sod—“

The nurse gave a reassuring squeeze to Aziraphale’s arm, “I’ll find out how she’s doing, love…”

“I cannot thank you enough…”

Crowley leaned elbows to knees, his voice dropping to a threatening hiss. “If you say _anything _in front of my angel that upsets him, I will choke the life out of you with your own intestines.” He reclined back, and called out jovially to Aziraphale as he approached. “Angel! Find out anything?”

The arm Crowley slid over Aziraphale’s shoulders was protective, and he proudly tucked his angel just that much closer into his side.

“No, I’m afraid not.” He straightened his bowtie, even though it was already positioned precisely. With Crowley so near, his anxiety was abated some.

The television drew Aziraphale’s attention when the volume increased. One of the two nurses standing at the nursing station held the remote control. “You heard about this, yet? Wicked,” said one of them.

A familiar news caster: “_In a shocking turn of events, the Bodleian Library has spontaneously gone missing, leaving officials baffled. It has not yet been confirmed whether it has a relationship to the event at The Vatican, where precious and priceless books and scrolls have gone missing. In lighter news – a snake has won the hearts of internet users internationally as he poses with flowers while wearing a top hat._”

Aziraphale’s attention lowered from the television, and studied hands that had gone still in his lap. Tension that had been slowly easing from him as the hours had passed drew him even more tautly upright. Color drained from his cheeks. He felt shamed in his joy of the gift he had received. After a moment to collect himself, Aziraphale cast a knowing look up at Crowley.

“Wot?” His voice conveyed indignation. “Wasn’t me… the last decent caper I planned, _you_ thwarted.”

Aziraphale maintained the leveled look, “We’ll discuss this further when we return home.”

Shadwell grunted across from them, but then mused aloud, “How many nipples do ya’ figure the bairne’ll have?”

Crowley was incredulous, “What’s your obsession with nipples?”

Newton pushed through the doors, and held them open. He looked apprehensive, but his smile was proud and happy. “She’s ready to see everyone.”

Aziraphale was the first to pop up, clapping his hands in excitement, “Oh, how wonderful!”

Crowley’s head fell back, and he groaned inwardly. The door had silently closed behind Aziraphale, Shadwell, and Newt before he unfolded himself. He sauntered in their direction, a nurse calling after him,

“Sir, only authorized personnel are permitted---“

“Right, right.” A snap, and he slipped through doors as they reopened for him.

Medical staff had left the room after cleaning up, allowing the mother to have privacy with her guests. Madame Tracy and Ms. Device were doting on Anathema. She looked exhausted and uncomfortable, but her smile was blissful as she stared down at the baby. Newton stood at the head of the bed, staring awestruck.

Aziraphale hovered several paces from the bed, his hands clasped in front of him. “Oh, Anathema. I’m positively delighted for you. You must be exhausted, poor dear.” The faintest flutter of fingers spread a comforting warmth through her, soothing away her pain.

“Aziraphale,” Her smile was welcoming. “I’m glad you guys could make it down here. You can come closer.”

The angel’s hesitant smile brightened, and he moved to the side of the bed. “Oh, Anathema, Newton… she’s _beautiful_.”

“Do you want to hold her?”

Aziraphale’s smile slipped slightly, “Oh… I couldn’t possibly…”

“Sure you can.” Anathema sat up straighter.

Words failed him. He leaned down, and ever so carefully cradled the swaddled babe to his chest. “Oh, she’s more than beautiful. She’s perfection.” The baby cooed quietly.

Crowley had been hovering near the door, but gravitated unwittingly closer to Aziraphale. He peered at the baby over the angel’s shoulder. “Eh… so what’s its name?”

“Eleftheria Ananki Device-Pulsifer.”

“Right, so that’s a thing…” He breathed out a sharp exhale, enunciated with a clearing of this throat to silence a laugh that would not be appreciated. “Does it have any hoofikins?”

Anathema scowled briefly at Crowley, but softened when she returned her attention to Aziraphale. “So, Aziraphale. Newt and I have given it a lot of thought, and we would be honored if you would agree to be her godfather.”

The angel had started a subtle sway as he held the baby, continuing to marvel down at her, only to pause, eyes wide. “Truly? Oh my, _yes_… absolutely.” His smile was pure joy that shone down on Eleftheria.

Crowley’s fingers were a whisper of a touch to the flat of arm above elbow, subtle so as to go unnoticed. He did lean closer, and murmur, “_You do know you can’t keep it?_”

Aziraphale didn’t even huff indignantly. He was beyond elated and full of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	10. Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

The doors to the library closed with finality behind them. Aziraphale had not been quiet the whole drive from the hospital back to their cottage.

At long last, the stage curtains had finally closed, and the two star crossed lovers were alone.

Crowley paused alongside a book shelf long enough to empty his pockets and to carefully remove his boots and socks. When he resumed his trek, he shed his jacket, glasses, watch, vest, and scarf, all of which disappeared before hitting the floor. A glass of scotch materialized in a waiting hand, permitting him to take a gulp that drained the glass. It refilled itself.

“And it couldn’t have been more beautiful.”

Crowley grunted an acknowledgement. “Last time I was at one, things didn’t go as expected…”

“Did you hear the absolutely _adorable_ sounds she made?”

Crowley stepped up onto the bed, then walked to the center where he collapsed back onto plump pillows with ankles crossed. Scotch sloshed in his glass, but dared not spill over the rim. “Blech, it’s going to be making so many more sounds that come with little surprises.”

“Oh, _babies_. Such little miracles.”

“The result of unprotected human procreation.” Left hand held his glass, and the right was used to draw the collar of his shirt up to his nose. He groaned in quiet frustration, “I smell like hospital.” His mind was on sensory overload. It had been overwhelming; too many humans, too much noise. Though his angel was filling the silence he sought, it was comforting. He was the only one Crowley wanted near even when he sought isolation.

“Oh, Crowley! Would you like to go to lunch?”

The glass was promptly drained again. It refilled. “Angel, we… _we just got back_…”

“I most definitely could go for sushi.”

Crowley’s voice held more contempt than he had intended, “Oh yes, there’s nothing like the miracle of life to put you in the mood for uncooked fish.”

It was like Aziraphale was finally _seeing _Crowley for the first time in hours. He could see how truly worn he was. The bubble of pure, unadulterated joy deflated slightly, “Crowley. How terribly rude of me. I’ve been going on and on.”

“_Angel_…” His voice conveyed his affection. “Come here. Lay with me, and you can tell me all about it. But after this week, it’d take nothing short of a miracle to get me out of this bed.”

Aziraphale stared down at the bed, and debated on how rumpled his coat would be if he were to lay down in it. With some uncertainty, he shrugged out of it, then laid it _just so_ at the foot of the bed. A knee pressed to the edge to climb up.

“What are you, a heathen? Shoes too, angel.”

Aziraphale sucked in an indignant breath, but bent down to carefully untie Oxfords so that they could be removed and placed on the floor, directly beneath his coat. Once more, a knee descended to mattress, and he closed the distance between them. Cautiously, he stretched out on his side, within reaching distance, but not touching.

“Ah, there’s my angel.” An arm slipped under Aziraphale’s shoulders, and Crowley drew him into his side. He could feel the tension in his posture, and stroked along his back in an attempt to relax him.

It took several moments, but with his head resting atop the crook of shoulder and chest, tension finally began to ebb. His right hand lay immobile at the center of Crowley’s chest.

They lay contented like that for several long moments, his arm angled beneath Aziraphale’s neck so that he could lightly glide his thumb back and forth over cheekbone. It was undeniably gratifying, to lay entwined in a cocoon of quiet. He was perfectly fine spending the rest of the week as they were – him striving for the numbness of intoxication, while holding his favorite being in all of the universe.

His breathing was soft, his sigh satisfied. Beneath his palm, he could feel the steady rise and fall of Crowley’s chest. Timidly, fingertips traced along skin bared above buttons that Aziraphale would never leave open on his own shirt. When no negative reaction was received, a button was slid free. The glide of a fingertip was a feather’s kiss along exposed flesh above the black undershirt. Another button was undone. Fabric was parted, hand laid against his chest, fingers splaying. Aziraphale was oblivious that Crowley had completely stilled beneath his touch, the glass he had raised to his mouth hovering.

Crowley tried to regulate his breathing and return it to normal. He was still mentally and physically fatigued from the unrelentingly long week. He knew his angel’s touch was innocent, and certainly didn’t want to discourage his exploration. Plus, the caress was akin to a soothing salve.

Aziraphale had run out of buttons with the shirt tucked in. With great care, he slid either side of the garment away.

Crowley decided quite quickly that maybe encouragement was the opposite of what he should be doing. “_Angel_…” It was a plea, as well as a warning. His grip on the glass tightened, and his breathing had become shallow. Crowley wasn’t certain that he was up to the difficult task of maintaining restraint.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale slid the hem of the ridged shirt up, fingertips teasing over the newly bared skin.

The glass dematerialized. In a fluid motion, he flipped the angel onto his back and rotated onto his own side, elevated with a hand to the mattress. “Do you have _any_ idea what you do to me?”

Blue eyes were slightly wide from the shift of position. “Well, n-no… no, not _precisely_…” His voice was breathy and his pulse fluttered against his throat.

“Allow me to show you, then.” His mouth descended, kiss hungry. While his tongue teased gently for admission to taste of Aziraphale, his free hand molded to the curve of jaw, thumb sweeping along soft cheek.

Aziraphale’s lips parted beneath Crowley’s with a soft sigh, and a hand slid under black fabric. His palm traced up his back, the muscles flexing.

With gentle guidance, he lifted Aziraphale’s chin. Crowley had lost count of how many times he had untied the angel’s bowtie and cast it aside. “I’m putting a ban on bowties,” this was murmured against his mouth. Their kiss was resealed and Crowley took his time reveling in it. Aziraphale’s tongue brushed his own, and it chipped away more of his resolve to abstain.

Fingertips trailed lovingly up Crowley’s spine, then swept through his red hair. His head lifted slightly from the pillow, and tipped. Though Aziraphale was timid, he found that he could lose himself in his love’s kiss.

Fingers of their free hands slid between each other, palms touching. The innocence of it was overpowered when Crowley drew the arm above his head and pinned it firmly there. His weight shifted, applying pressure to the hold to ensure the angel couldn’t withdraw.

Aziraphale’s breath was a sharp, startled inhale that broke their kiss, and his body tensed in that moment of vulnerability. And yet, a thrill of excitement raced through him, his heart stuttering in his chest. He could feel the response of his body, though his mind was struggling to keep up.

In that moment, he had lost himself. He could feel the tension reclaim his angel; the sudden inhale a harsh reminder. Crowley shifted his weight, releasing the immobilizing pressure he had. His head dropped to Aziraphale’s chest, hiding his face. His breaths were deep, drawing in the familiar scent of him. He was at momentary war with the snake inside of him, the predator that wanted to forcefully _take_ his angel. It was held back by sheer force of determination. This was not to _take_, but to share; to make two beings into one and ensure his angel was able to accept what they were doing willfully. He was now afraid of frightening Aziraphale away. As much as that would likely be the best, he still had the selfish desire to have this moment; this connection… and Crowley knew he wanted it, as well.

Aziraphale’s untangled his hand, fingers slipping under chin. With gentle guidance, he drew Crowley back up. Their brows touched, and Crowley’s fingers dug into the soft sheet beneath them.

“Angel… are you sure?” He pulled back just enough so that he could search for any hesitation that Aziraphale may have. Crowley struggled to hide his own vulnerability; the self-loathing of the darkness that stained his soul. He hated that he was a jeopardy to such purity and goodness.

“I trust you, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s expression was calm, a reflection of the faith he held in the demon. Crowley’s threats had always lacked true venom, and Aziraphale felt that it had been more of a posturing for the sake of maintaining his rough exterior.

Crowley hesitated a moment longer, before relenting. Their lips met again in a tentative kiss. It lingered, and with it Crowley tried to convey the depth of his uncertainty; an unspoken plea that Aziraphale see rationality and end the insanity of what they were doing.

Aziraphale slid an elbow under himself, and raised up slightly. A hand to the nape of Crowley’s neck pulled him in closer. His head canted, sealing their mouths more firmly together. He wanted to ease away any lingering shreds of doubt.

His fate was once more just out of reach, and he was powerless to control it. But it wasn’t only his destiny – Aziraphale’s was entwined within it for better or worse. He had someone to brave the storm with him now. Despite all of his misgivings, the angel had found the light in him that Crowley hadn’t been able to see. Even God hadn’t been able to take him as he had been and currently was; the complexity of the lingering light and darkness and love that he was capable of feeling even after his Fall. With Aziraphale he had found an acceptance that surpassed even the Almighty; a forgiveness of everything that he had done, and love despite it, disregarding the danger it posed for the angel. There was no stopping them now; Crowley just hoped that their destination wouldn’t be their destruction. His throat constricted, tight with the emotions he kept locked deep inside of him. Tears were hot as they teased behind his eyelids, threatening to spill over. His hand trembled when he buried it into blonde curls, and he clung with desperation to the kiss. The back of knuckles traced over the swell of Aziraphale’s cheek, then swept downwards. When he reached the top of the vest, Crowley finally broke the kiss. His mouth was gentle and his breath warm as he drifted along the curve of jawline.

Aziraphale’s head tipped back with the gentle coaxing of Crowley’s mouth. His moan was quiet; a soft exhale. His fingers flexed slightly at the base of Crowley’s neck, an encouraging touch.

Crowley deftly parted the six buttons of the waistcoat, the chain of the pocket watch slipping free. His mouth found the angel’s ear, and the tip of his tongue followed along the bottom curve of the lobe.

“_Oh…_” It was a shuddering exhale, and the grip nearest to the bed curled into the sheets. His hand slid from Crowley’s neck and moved between them, slipping under fabric so that fingertips could dance along skin drawn taut over ribs. 

Powder blue shirt was tugged free of trousers, and Crowley worked his way up, freeing buttons. He found the tender flesh at the edge of jawline. His mouth was whisper soft. Teeth nipped gently, and any sting was smoothed away with another caress of his mouth.

His own teeth caught his bottom lip, biting back the sharp intake of breath. Palm glided up Crowley’s chest, resting over his heart. A dip of his head and their lips reunited briefly. Aziraphale could hear the rush of blood through his ears as he slanted his mouth down over the angled curve of Crowley’s jaw. He could feel the tension as Crowley’s teeth grit. His mouth sought lower.

Crowley’s hands stilled, and his brow wrinkled. His chin lifted ever so slightly, permitting access to his throat. The mouth was soft, his breath warm as it fanned against his skin. Crowley wanted to stop, to allow Aziraphale a moment to test his boundaries, but his resolve was already threadbare. A hand raised, fingers molding to the softness of his cheek. Crowley leaned back a bit, just enough that he could sweep his thumb over lower lip. Their mouths met momentarily, allowing free hands to undo the remainder of the buttons. Both the waistcoat and dress shirt were swept aside. His teeth tugged teasingly at the fullness of Aziraphale’s bottom lip, and the kiss was broken. Crowley shifted the length of his lean frame down Aziraphale’s body and a knee slipped between thighs to part them. Both hands slithered beneath the edge of the white undershirt and his body bent. His mouth teased just above the band of trousers. With the undershirt caught on his wrists, his hands stroked up soft belly, and his mouth followed behind.

He had stretched up slightly, chasing after another kiss, but Crowley had moved away. With his curiosity ever present, he watched as Crowley slunk down the bed. Obligingly, Aziraphale shifted his position, parting legs. Pink blossomed on his cheeks when his stomach was bared. His breath was a soft whimper when mouth made contact with pale skin. “_Oh, goodness me…_” 

Right thumb swept over left nipple as he explored higher, and the tip of his tongue darted out to taste skin. When the shirt would glide no higher, he slid an arm around Aziraphale, palm pressed between shoulder blades. Mouths found one another again, and he drank the angel’s panted breath.

He wrapped his free arm around Crowley’s shoulders, and plunged his hand into tousled red hair again. Aziraphale pulled him down against him, his kiss eager. A yearning for something not quite identified was shared in the kiss.

Crowley held the angel firmly to him, his groan a deep hum low in his throat. His patience was fraying. He slowly sat back, and as he did, he guided Aziraphale with him. Their mouths remained locked in the desperate kiss. Claiming fistfuls of vest and dress shirt, Aziraphale’s arms fell from him as Crowley tugged them free. He reached out to discard clothing.

The kiss was broken with great reluctance, his breaths shallow. “Oh, ah… Crowley…?” His voice was quiet, tinged with uncertainty.

He leaned back a moment to study Aziraphale’s expression, though he knew his angel and the concern he held for his antiquated clothes. A snap of fingers hung the jacket, vest, bowtie, and shirt on a familiar coat stand. Soft white cotton was bunched up, and he guided it over Aziraphale’s head. This shirt was cast in teasing defiance over the edge of the bed. Hands cupped his angel’s neck, thumbs sliding over jawline. He drew Aziraphale back into him, reclaiming the angel’s mouth in another kiss.

His hands found grip on the black shirt he still wore, tugging it free from tight leather. He slid his touch under the hem of both shirts, drawing palms up Crowley’s back. 

His heart was racing faster than his Bentley through central London. Crowley shuddered under the angel’s exploring touch. A hand moved between their bodies and found belt buckle. The button and zipper of trousers were dealt with in the same fastidious way, unoccupied hand molding to the back of Aziraphale’s head. Despite the hunger of their kiss, he coaxed the angel onto his back with great care.

Aziraphale shifted beneath him, knees bending so they framed narrow hips, and though Crowley placed an arm to the mattress to take some of his weight, he was pulled closer. Aziraphale was drunk on him, and found that he couldn’t get enough.

The kiss was broken, and he slipped out of his angel’s embrace. His mouth swept down the center of Aziraphale’s chest and stomach, fingers curling into the band of trousers. Crowley shifted so that he could draw them down. Tartan socks were removed in the same fluid movement, though the pants materialized neatly on the coat rack before they hit the floor. For a moment, Crowley sat between Aziraphale’s legs, his grip tight on shins. Teeth bit harshly at the inside of his own lip, and his brow furrowed with his strained control. Loose, white boxer shorts couldn’t hide the angel’s arousal._ Fuck. Get it together_.

Warmth heated his cheeks under the intensity of Crowley’s scrutiny, and instinctively, Aziraphale reached for sheets beneath them. He was uncomfortable with nudity while alone as it was, but it teetered towards unbearable under the unblinking gaze. Fingers closed around his wrist, stilling the motion.

“Don’t.” The command was firm. “Not with me.” He loved the curves and valleys that were softer than his own lean frame.

“Crowley…?” He rose up on an elbow, watching the struggle as he fought for restraint. An unfamiliar feeling of satisfaction unfurled inside him, knowing that he was the cause of inner conflict. He had felt a mere slip of Crowley’s resolve when he had pinned him hard to the bed. Aziraphale knew that if he truly wanted to, Crowley could easily overtake him. He also knew, though, that Crowley would only ever come to his rescue, not be someone that he needed rescue from.

“_Aziraphale…_” It was an anchor to the present. His grip relaxed at last, and he bent towards the bed. Right hand slipped beneath left knee, drawing it slightly up. His head dipped, and he placed a kiss to inner knee. The same treatment was given to the opposite leg.

The kisses seemed almost innocent, yet his breath hitched in his chest, and he gasped quietly. Teeth scraped over bottom lip, and lids fell over blue eyes. Aziraphale strove to regulate his breathing but it had become increasingly difficult as Crowley explored higher.

Hands braced to the outside of Aziraphale’s thighs, and the tip of Crowley’s tongue and mouth traced a lazy path upward. Fingers eased the fabric of boxers up, baring more skin.

Aziraphale’s breathing became erratic, and his head fell back. He couldn’t silence the strangled sigh that escaped. Tension crept through his body the higher Crowley’s mouth explored. “_C-crowley?_” It was a dubious murmuring of his name.

Crowley retreated enough that he could pay respects to the other thigh. His kisses were soft, his mouth a warm caress. When he once more reached the hem of boxers, fingers curled into the band.

Aziraphale’s grip was fisted into the sheets, and his lips were parted to draw in short breaths of air. He tried unsuccessfully to quiet his whimpering.

Slowly, the thin fabric was drawn down, Aziraphale raising his hips enough to permit the removal of undergarments. The last barrier that hid his angel’s nakedness was tossed aside. His hands again followed the path up Aziraphale’s thighs. Crowley’s fingers were feather-light as they explored the length of his arousal at last. 

Aziraphale’s chest stilled as his breath caught. Fingers splayed, and he tensed further. He tried to remain immobile, as if he were concerned that movement may deter Crowley.

When he finally curled fingers around Aziraphale’s erection, his grip was just tight enough to be felt. Beneath Crowley’s touch manifested a satiny moisture that slickened shaft.

As the grip slid up the length of him, it drew a fragile moan from his toes. His elbow gave out under him, and he slipped back to the mattress. Aziraphale fought to relax, but had lost the capability to do so. Thighs flexed, and his hips shifted slightly to meet the hand that slid back down the length of his arousal.

His loose grip moved up and down in unhurried strokes, his wrist twisting with the movement. Crowley’s unoccupied fingers were gossamer as they traced along the tip. He gazed up the length of his angel’s body, marveling. He looked beautiful in his pleasure. Crowley never wanted it to end. He could spend an eternity ensuring that his precious angel only ever felt _good_.

The angel’s spine drew up from the mattress. “_Crowley…_” His cracked voice, though quiet, had risen an octave. He eased back to the bed, hands tangling tight into sheets again. 

His grip tightened, claiming a more secure hold. His stroking became purposeful, no longer teasing. The angel’s panted breath and delicate moans encouraged him. His own need strained against his zipper, begging for release, but he had more he wanted to give.

A heel dug into the mattress, his hips gently undulating against Crowley’s deliberate stroking. An unfamiliar pressure had risen inside of him, strangling the breath in his throat.

Crowley abruptly removed his hand, much to the angel’s dismay. “_N-no…_” It was a stuttered plea, and Aziraphale drew himself back up onto an elbow. Crowley’s laughter was a husky sound, and he stretched up the length of his body. “_All in good time, my angel_.” His dry hand gripped Aziraphale’s chin, and their mouths met again.

A trembling arm wrapped around Crowley’s neck, and drew him closer. Aziraphale was quivering with need, his kiss hungry.

Once his angel had retreated from the edge of release, Crowley reached his hand between their bodies. His grip was still slick when he wrapped it around Aziraphale’s erection. Crowley drank the moan that was breathed against the kiss. As the pad of his thumb again swept over sensitive slit, the angel’s head tipped back. “_Crowley_…” His mouth pressed to Aziraphale’s throat. Teeth nipped gently, and his tongue smoothed away any ache.

Another moan escaped him, a wordless plea for something incomprehensible that only Crowley could give him. He found it increasingly more difficult to draw in breath once more. It was building inside of him again, and he clung to Crowley for strength. The hand fell away again, and Aziraphale whimpered in protest.

Crowley’s pleased smile was hidden with a touch of his brow to his shoulder. His mouth was a gentle caress against flushed skin. Aziraphale was once more given a moment to fall back from the brink of relief, and as he was allowed the reprieve, Crowley sank slowly back down the length of his body. His breath was warm against heated flesh, his descent unhurried. For a third time, he grasped the base of his angel’s erection. Crowley’s head bowed, though he watched Aziraphale’s expression closely.

“Crowley, should you...?” With an elbow under him, he watched Crowley with growing apprehension that pulled his brows together. The question died on his lips, replaced with a shuddering groan that felt as if it was pulled from his toes. Crowley’s tongue had pressed to the underside of his arousal, and slid up. Blue eyes rolled, and tendons stood out in his neck when his head canted back.

The tip of his tongue teased along the edge of flared head. When Crowley took him into his mouth, he could feel the angel shudder beneath him. A hand stroked up and down the length of the shaft, while his mouth and tongue provided primary focus on the sensitive tip.

Teeth captured his bottom lip, but the soft groans broke free regardless. Aziraphale gasped desperately for breath. His chin tipped into his shoulder, eyes squeezed closed in concentration. It was almost overwhelming. The rumpled sheets were fisted in one hand, but the other rested against the mattress, fingers splayed and seeking. Crowley’s laced between his own, anchoring him. His grasp on Crowley’s hand tightened, and his back arched off the bed again.

When he pulled away, Aziraphale sank back into the bed. His breathing was shallow, and his hand trembled when he placed his own palm to his brow. The bed shifted under Crowley’s weight as he retreated over the edge. Aziraphale was still trying to find breath but the uncertainty in his voice was clear, “Crowley?”

Rather than fighting with the remaining buttons of his shirt, he pulled both garments over his head. “Trust me angel, I am not going anywhere.” Trembling hands fought with the snakehead belt, and he cursed under his breath. The button was popped free, but fitted pants were peeled down. He could feel the weight of Aziraphale’s stare, but didn’t meet it as he peeled down black boxer-briefs. Black socks were the last to be added to the pool of clothing on the floor.

Knees found purchase on the bed, and he moved back up. Crowley didn’t make it all the way to Aziraphale. Strong hands gripped hips, and he pulled Aziraphale down to meet him, draping thighs over the top of his own. Crowley’s lean frame stretched up, arms on either side of him. Lips found each other again.

Both arms wrapped loose around his neck, and the angel drew him down onto him. With skin to skin, Aziraphale could feel the heat of Crowley’s arousal. It caused a slight hitch in his chest, anticipation knotting his insides.

His mouth swept along jaw, his breath a tickle of warm air against Aziraphale’s ear. “_I want you_…” And then Crowley could feel the sudden and immediate stillness of the angel beneath him. The chest that had been heaving mere moments before now quieted.

Realization dawned. The gravity of the situation grabbed a sharp hold of Aziraphale. He hadn’t been able to understand, not _truly_ understand, precisely what Crowley had meant about _going back_. He was right. This one seemingly innocuous thing was a _sin._ Cities and people had been _destroyed_ over it. Tension stole across his body, and instinctively he held more tightly to Crowley. Old emotions and memories suffocated him and his heart rose to choke him.

“_Not the kids? You can’t kill kids.” _That had been a flood. How can you reason with rain?

_“Aziraphale, where is your God Given Flaming Sword?” Sandalphon scowled at him, but didn’t pause his hurried stride through the boisterous street. Aziraphale’s hands were clasped behind him, fingers laced tightly together as he followed. “Er… right. Well, we… we’re only investigating.”_

_They had been ushered into Lot’s house, and fed. Sandalphon didn’t partake of the meal, but Aziraphale sat with the family. On either side of him were Lot’s daughters, each vying innocently for his attention. His beer was refilled by the eldest daughter, and more bread brought to him by the youngest. Sandalphon looked disgusted._

_The harsh pounding at the door was sudden, a jarring sound that was soon echoed by the clamoring of shouts. Aziraphale lurched to his feet and instinctively placed himself between the shaking door and the young girls. _

_Sandalphon drew his sword. _

_“COME, AZIRAPHALE. FOR THE GLORY OF GOD!” His voice was a deafening boom._

_“Er, Sandalphon…” His hands drew together before him, fingers wringing anxiously. “We’re meant to investigate first.”_

** _Send out the strangers so that we may know them._ **

_The door cracked under the weight of the frenzied humans just outside. “Make a gift of your daughters to them, Lot.” Sandalphon grinned maliciously at Aziraphale._

_A step back was taken, closer to the defenseless girls, his arms stretching out from him protectively. “No! You mustn’t!”_

_Lot looked between both angels, then the door. “Give them your daughters in the name of God!” Lot took an uncertain step towards Aziraphale, who maintained a protective stance in front of the children. They had dropped to their knees, sobbing, pleading for their safety. _

_“I will not allow this!” His voice was firm, resolute._

_Sandalphon was descending on him, when the door fractured. The humans spilled in, pandemonium erupting in the small space. _

_A panicked hand flung out before him, the chaos mingled with confusion as the mob was cast into blindness; a defensive miracle._

_An arc of Sandalphon’s sword, and blood showered down on them. Lightning flashed, and the ground beneath their feet trembled. “COME, AZIRAPHALE. THE CITIES MUST BE PURGED. IT IS OUR ANGELIC DUTY TO REIGN DOWN GOD’S DIVINE JUDGEMENT AND SEND THE SINNERS TO THE FALLEN.” The righteous angel pointed a dripping sword at Lot. “**Every **mortal!” He glared meaningfully at Aziraphale._

_A deafening boom of thunder was accompanied with another blinding flash of lightning. Behind him, the girls covered their ears and screamed._

_“IN THE NAME OF OUR ALMIGHTY LORD.” A wall exploded outwards in splinters of stone, and Sandalphon descended upon the humans in the streets._

_Aziraphale turned to face the frightened family. “Hurry! We must get you all to safety!” He bent, assisting each of the girls to their feet. _

_“No, Lot! Take our daughters to Zoar! Leave me!” Lot’s wife was with child. Lot looked as if he planned to argue, then turned to help his girls over the rubble. _

_Aziraphale braced a supportive arm along her back, and took one of her hands in his. The sky was hazy and orange with fire, the smoke suffocating. Despite the terror that choked him, his voice was reassuring. “Don’t look back, keep running. You’re going to be okay.” The ground shifted beneath their feet, but Aziraphale held the woman into his side, preventing a loss of balance._

_They had made it through the crumbling gates of the city and out into the plains beyond. A step, and Aziraphale stumbled. He turned, his arms now empty. Lot’s wife had become a beautiful statue of crystallized salt, a hand cradled to the underside of her belly. A glance was cast over her shoulder and Aziraphale followed the direction of her gaze. Sandalphon stood at the entrance of the gates, his grin malevolent. _

_His knees gave, and he collapsed before the mortal. A trembling hand molded to the curve of her belly, mourning the loss of two innocent lives. _

_“I can’t believe they actually went through with it.” Crowley’s voice was quiet astonishment. The wind swept through long, red curls, and his black robes fluttered in the breeze. Yellow eyes studied the woman a moment, before falling to Aziraphale. His sorrow was etched on his lovely features, tears spilling down his cheeks. His grief was tangible and heart wrenching. “**Angel**.” It was said with reverence as he gazed upon such angelic anguish that it should be immortalized in marble. Fingers curled into Aziraphale’s biceps, guiding him to his feet, and turning him to face the demon. _

_“Come on, angel. Let’s get you out of here.”_

Crowley watched the recognition flicker across Aziraphale’s features, and a flash of terror in blue eyes. Left hand raised, his palm molded to the curve of jaw. His thumb was a reassuring stroke against his soft cheek. “I don’t want to move too fast for you, angel.” The caress of his mouth at the corner of Aziraphale’s lips was gentle, loving, and then he withdrew.

There existed no doubts that he chose Crowley, above all else. At every turn, Crowley had been there for him, whenever he needed him. He brought peace and joy to Aziraphale, and the angel would give up everything, _had _given up everything, to be with Crowley. Before he could withdraw completely, Aziraphale curled his fingers around a forearm. “Crowley… I want this. I want _us_.” Whatever happened, they could face it together. It was terrifying and bordering on overwhelming, but things in life were worth a fight. He wanted to share his love with Crowley how the humans did. They had enjoyed so much of what humanity had created, that it was fitting that they connected in such a deeply physical, profound way.

_Six thousand years _of longing stared back at Crowley from blue eyes, tears glittering like jewels on dark lashes. He returned to Aziraphale’s embrace, the angel’s arms encircling his neck and a forearm braced to the bed to bear his weight. He was enveloped in love whenever around the angel, and it was safe for him to love in return. He could feel anger, and frustration, and grief, and know that his angel would always be there. He had found refuge that he had never known before. He was a demon, unforgiveable, shunned by God; but he had found forgiveness and redemption with Aziraphale. The reunion of mouths was soft, yet a millennia of love and yearning was communicated. Right arm slid between the mattress and Aziraphale’s back, and the other slipped between them. Suddenly slick palm curled around the angel’s length, his stroke slow.

Lips parted against Crowley’s, his breath catching. Crowley’s touch rekindled his desire, and he whimpered against the kiss. Fingers tangled in his red hair, and Aziraphale writhed in anticipation. “_Please_.” It was murmured amidst the kiss.

Crowley could only comply with the angel’s plea. His hand shifted to his own erection, stroking lubricant along the length, to ensure that he would cause as minimal pain as possible. The head of his erection was guided against Aziraphale’s entrance, yet Crowley hesitated. One last time he searched his angel’s expression for doubts. A coaxing hand slid down the length of his spine.

Crowley was infinitely gentle as he pressed forward. He stopped when the angel’s head reared back into the mattress, and a harsh inhale of breath was sucked in through gritted teeth. Short, manicured nails dug harshly into his back. Crowley dared not move, his breath catching in his chest.

“_Please don’t stop, Crowley_.”

Kisses were swept along clenched jaw, and Crowley resumed once more. He was slow, allowing him to grow accustomed to the sensation, even though it was close to torturous for him.

He hadn’t expected how sharp the pain would be. It dulled to an ache that was teased with the promise of pleasure. He could feel the warmth of Crowley as he began easing further inside. The tension began to fall away, lips parting for a sigh of relieved breath. Crowley paused with their bodies pressed intimately together, and the fullness of it was satisfying and comforting.

Once he was buried completely inside of his angel, Crowley’s brow pressed to the front of his shoulder, arm returning to encircle him. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, and now he was the one who stood too close to the edge of release. “_Angel…_” His voice was gravel in his throat. When he was certain that he had seized control of his climax, Crowley slowly withdrew. Aziraphale’s thighs tightened against his hips, a wordless plea to not leave him. His laugh was a pleased rumble in his chest, and he shifted so that he could look down into blue eyes. “_I love you, angel_.” He captured Aziraphale’s mouth in a kiss, and drank the affirmation of love he had been prepared to say aloud.

His arms draped over Crowley’s shoulders, fingers tangling in dark hair. Wiry muscles tightened above him as Crowley began moving inside of him. It was like nothing else. There remained a slight throb of discomfort, but it was overshadowed by the intense, mounting pleasure now. He could feel Crowley’s hardness moving against sensitive inner walls agonizingly slow.

Careful movements became a more steady rhythm. He’d withdraw almost completely, then thrust home. The kiss was broken when Aziraphale’s head tipped back; a delicate, throaty groan his encouragement. Crowley tried to grasp at restraint, but it was difficult when his name was a prayer on his angel’s lips. He found the curve where throat met shoulder and rested his brow there. His breathing was growing ragged, his pleasure vocalized in a low sound that vibrated in his chest.

Any lingering threads of his normal dignity were torn. His mind was silenced. Each thrust tore a moan from his lips, and he struggled for breath. He was drowning, and he held all the more tightly to his demon. Nails scraped across Crowley’s shoulders as Aziraphale’s grip balled into fists. His voice rose slightly louder, more desperate, and if it were possible, his breathing became even more erratic. His body writhed where it was trapped between Crowley and the bed. Heels dug into the mattress, and his toes curled. “_Oh, Crowley_…”

His own control was falling away, and the bite of nails was only gasoline to his inferno. The even movement of his thrusts increased, emboldened by his angel’s fragile moans. He wanted to hear the break of release in him, and was determined to fight back his own climax for another millennia if necessary. His curse was smothered against Aziraphale’s throat when he moved beneath him.

His body grew taut, and then trembled as he finally reached that unknowable destination. Each thrust drew out that pinnacle of pleasure, until he felt he could take no more. His pleasure was vocalized in desperate, unintelligible sounds.

He growled again, a grating sound, when the orgasm was wrenched from him. His breath stuttered in his chest, and he continued to thrust until he was certain that Aziraphale was sated.

Drained of his strength at last, Crowley collapsed on his side to the left of Aziraphale, then pulled his angel into him. The stickiness of climax evaporated before they lay chest to chest. Crowley reached up, and tugged a pillow down to them, ensuring that it supported Aziraphale’s head, before he reclined his own. Sweat still beaded on their skin, but it cooled overheated flesh.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice was hoarse, and he still struggled to catch his breath. But Crowley wouldn’t be able to relax until he knew Aziraphale was alright.

“Only some.” A fist tucked under his chin, and the other arm draped over a pronounced hip.

He tried to hide the frustration in his quiet groan. Fingers lifted Aziraphale’s chin, allowing him to meet blue eyes. “I’m sorry, angel.”

The kiss was a gentle, reassuring caress. “You know I’ll always forgive you of anything.”

They lapsed into silence, and for several minutes they laid thusly; quiet and still, legs entwined with each other.

Crowley was the first to break the quiet. “Anthony.”

Aziraphale’s voice sounded thick and content, as if he had been sleeping, “hmm?”

“I’d like you to call me Anthony, now.”

Aziraphale was pensively silent a moment, but his mouth was soon a tickled kiss at the base of Crowley’s throat. “That can be arranged.”

The two were quiet once more; content.

Crowley was once more the first to speak. “You know those instructional signs for rollercoasters? _Must be this tall to ride_, and all that?”

“I’ve never gotten around to riding a roller coaster.”

Crowley’s sigh ruffled blonde curls. “You wouldn’t like it. Well, anyway. I’m putting one of those signs outside the library doors. Except it’s going to say that you can’t enter if you’re wearing a bloody bowtie, overcoat, waistcoat, dress shirt, _and _undershirt.”

“But I can keep the pocket watch?”

Crowley hugged his angel tighter to him as he laughed.

The two laid there, unmoving, the moon the only illumination. They were still, their breaths even.

Crowley couldn’t recall a moment in his entire existence, in Heaven above or Hell below, that could compete with the absolute bliss he felt in that moment. His mind was at ease for once, and he was _loved_. His past transgressions didn’t matter… nothing mattered. Just them. If he were destroyed come morning, he would die with the knowledge that he was perhaps worthy of love from someone whose purity shone brighter than any star. In the stillness, they slept, Crowley holding the angel that was sleeping for the first time in several thousand years.

It was in that moment of enveloping quiet and stillness that something dark took root. Cancerous weeds planted seeds of doubt, which blossomed inside of him and consumed the joy he felt.

_It’s real. His worst fear. Black eyes peered up at him from where Crowley held his angel. Astringent tears rolled down pale cheeks._

It haunted him in his sleep, a constant loop behind closed lids that wouldn’t let him revel in the moment any longer. He jerked awake with a harsh gasp.

A snap turned on blinding lights overhead, and Crowley tipped Aziraphale onto his back. His hands trembled as he cupped his angel’s cheeks. When eyes opened to peer in confusion up at Crowley, he had to bite back a horrified yell. Blue was only a pale circle around black, consumed by the darkness.

_He fell. He fell. He fell._

“No, no, no, no, no.”

_It’s my fault. I did this. I poison everything I love._

“Crowley. Anthony.” Soft hands molded to his cheeks. “_Anthony_.” His voice was more insistent now.

With his heart a painful lump in his throat, Crowley returned his attention to Aziraphale’s face. His expression was calm; serene. Dilated pupils had constricted once more, and familiar blue had returned. “It’s alright. I’m still me.”

“Oh, _thank God_.” Though the praise was not customary of demons, Crowley could only be truly grateful that either They had felt mercy, or apathy. Regardless of the whimsy of God, he hadn’t broken and caused the ruination of his angel… _yet_. The blinding overhead light was snapped off and Aziraphale was folded up in his embrace, and held just a bit more tightly. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Aziraphale relaxed against Crowley, an arm draped over his side. “I’m yours for all of eternity.”

Crowley buried his face into the halo of silky blonde curls. “_I love you, angel._”

His voice held none of the worry he usually carried with him. “I love you, Anthony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	11. Tea time with friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Sometimes it’s difficult being an omnipotent cosmic entity and allowing two supernatural creatures any modicum of privacy. The sun was warm as it shone in through the window behind them. Symphony No. 6 by Beethoven played on the old gramophone quietly in the background.

Plump pillows supported Aziraphale’s back. Crowley was right, it was a good bed to curl up and read in.

The two were night and day. Aziraphale wore a thick, soft powder blue robe cinched tight at the waist and his mid-shin length tartan socks. Crowley wore a thin, silk black robe that was left open at the front, black boxer-briefs underneath. Crowley was reclined back into the pillows. Left knee was bent, supporting his forearm as he scrolled through news articles on his iPhone. In his other hand was a tumbler of scotch. He knew that Aziraphale would likely want to go see the human and her offspring today. “The humans look for any way to completely fuck everything up. If I still had to report downstairs, I’d claim responsibility of this Brexit bullshite.”

Aziraphale glanced up from his book. It was an odd sensation to look to his left and see his dearest almost completely naked. His look was appreciative as he studied lean muscles.

“I can feel you staring at me, angel.” This was murmured without glancing up from his phone.

“_Oh_… my apologies.” His cheeks flushed hot and pink, and he immediately returned his gaze to his book.

“I didn’t say that I wasn’t enjoying it.” He took a drink.

Aziraphale’s blush lingered, and he lost the ability to focus on the words. “Anthony?”

“Yes, angel?” Crowley peered up from his phone to study Aziraphale. He looked utterly ridiculous and endearing.

“Do you recall when you… ahem…” He cleared his throat, searching for the words. “…when you manhandled me at the birthing hospital?”

The phone clicked as he locked it, and placed it aside. “Look, angel. I’m… so sor—“

Aziraphale cut him off before he could continue. “I quite enjoyed it. Not to detract from how…” He searched for the descriptor, his tone placating, “… how _fearsome _you were. You certainly made me think twice of calling you nice again.”

An eyebrow arched. “You’re flirting with danger, Aziraphale.”

The smile that he cast at Crowley was overtly flirtatious, his cheeks still heated. “Lucky for me, danger is exceptionally handsome.”

Crowley’s laughter was a low rumble in his chest. He captured Aziraphale’s hand, and brought it up. Lips caressed against his angel’s palm.

Several long, quiet moments passed. Time enough for Aziraphale’s thoughts to shift. “Love?” His voice was tentative. All pretense that he was going to read was cast aside. The book was closed and placed to his right.

Crowley had resumed reading news articles, his thumb a gentle caress along the ridge of knuckles absently. “Yes, angel?” Voice quiet, distracted.

“Is it always like… that?” Aziraphale could not hide his uncertainty.

“How the bloody hell should I know?” Crowley raised an eyebrow again, inquisitively. And then realization dawned. Shame and horror and self-directed frustration swamped him. _Fucking hell. What do I even tell him? _

“With… you know.._._” Aziraphale couldn’t look at him. “_…the others._” His hand withdrew so that he could pluck absently at his robe, readjusting it as he would his bowtie.

The scotch glass vanished so that he could shift up to his knees, his touch gentle as he lifted blue eyes. “Aziraphale, I only said that to—“ _No. _He absolutely could not tell him that he had used it to hurt him. Guilt was a knife that stabbed and twisted, and he stammered, words tripping over one another as his mouth attempted to catch up to his racing thoughts. “I-I… oh, _angel, _th-there’s never… _not ever…_ been anyone else.”

The truth of it was clear in the yellow eyes he met. “_O-oh… _never… _at all_?” The anxiety that furrowed his brows melted away, relief flooding him.

“Aziraphale…” His tone was patient as Crowley sat back against the pillows, and folded him against his chest. The only other being that he had been interested in had been Jesus, and that had been only because he was a piece of God. He had sought him out for nothing other than to be near Them again. “I’ve only ever had eyes for you.”

His breath was a relieved sigh as he sank into his warmth. “Oh, Anthony…” Aziraphale’s mouth was a gentle caress along clavicle, moving higher to sweep along jaw, then finding lips. Hesitantly, his hand trailed down, fingertips teasing under the band of boxer briefs.

His growl was a quiet, pleased sound low in his throat. The remainder of the morning was spent reinforcing that there could never have been anyone else for Crowley. Aziraphale was all he had ever wanted.

Aziraphale knocked politely on the door, but before anyone could answer it, Anthony snapped and it swung open. Aziraphale instinctively admonished him, “Anthony, you can’t just walk into people’s homes unannounced.”

“Why not? You knocked. We’re announced.” He slung his right arm over shoulders, fingers threading together when Aziraphale raised his hand. Crowley led the way into the cottage. Anathema sat in a recliner to one side of the room, Madame Tracy seated next to her in a kitchen chair, holding the baby. Sergeant Shadwell sat on the other side of the sofa from Newton, reading the newspaper. Newt was leaned forward, the volume on the television low; a chaotic, first person shooter game filling the screen. Ever since he had been with Anathema, electronics hadn’t seemed to hold their same disdain for him.

Shadwell lowered a corner of the paper to scowl up at the two.

“Oh, right. Just so everyone knows. This is a thing.” He swept his free hand between him and Aziraphale. He made eye contact with Shadwell, “And it is going to continue to be a thing. Any questions, comments, or concerns should be directed to Dagon, because you can take them right to Hell.” Crowley pressed his mouth to Aziraphale’s cheek. His angel was a deep shade of scarlet, though his lips were curved in a proud smile. Crowley left Aziraphale to see the human’s spawn and wiry frame dropped to the sofa between Newt and Shadwell. Curious eyebrows raised over glasses when he shifted his attention to the television. “Human, what’s that?”

“Oh, uh, it’s Halo.” Was Newton’s somewhat distracted reply.

Crowley gestured to the aliens. “Is that the human’s interpretation of demons? Can’t say as I disagree. Hastur makes those things look almost fuckable.”

Newton turned his head to gape, gobsmacked at the demon. When he returned his attention back to the television, his character had collapsed to the ground.

“Here, lemme give it a shot. How do ya play?”

He was too excited to retrieve a chair from the table, and instead gave a flutter of fingers. He pulled the materialized chair up to the two women, and seated himself. “Anathema, dear. How are you feeling?” He leaned towards Madame Tracy, and stared with absolute wonder down at the sleeping baby she cradled.

“Exhausted, but content.” Dark circles lined beneath her eyes.

Aziraphale stretched out, and placed one of his hands over hers. “If there’s absolutely anything Anthony and I can do to assist you, you need only call.” His touch was soothing as it assuaged fatigue and pain.

“Newt has been helping as much as he can.”

Madame Tracy leaned closer to him as he was peering at the babe. Her voice was conspiratorially low, loud enough only for them. “_I see the flowers worked._”

The blush returned, and he tried hard to fight back his pleased smile.

“Here, dear. Say hello to Elfie.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms gently around the infant, and held her to his chest. She didn’t stir. “_Oh, Lord. You are so beautiful_.” His voice was scarcely above a whisper; reverent. 

“She is such a blessing. Angels don’t have babies… well, not with our own kind, anyway. And the latter is frowned upon.” He bowed his head, his mouth feather-light against Elfie’s soft cheek. He could smell the scent that could only be described as _baby_, and he was in Heaven, no, he felt that he was in a place better than Heaven. Earth.

He could imagine that she would grow to be a bright and curious toddler, mischievous and sweet. Though he feigned indifference, he was certain that Anthony would find enjoyment in watching Elfie explore. The thought was bittersweet. He would not only have to watch Anathema and Newton age and die, but also Elfie. His smile fell slightly. “Back to mummy, sweet baby.” His voice remained quiet as he leaned forward, and guided the infant into her mother’s embrace.

He spared a glance around the lived-in area. His fingers gave an imperceptible wiggle. His miracle filled the cupboards with food; the refrigerator stocked with cold items to save the parents a trip to the shops. A basket of laundry in the corner vanished, folded and put in its place. The few dishes that hadn’t been cleaned yet, including baby bottles, were back in the cupboard, cleaned appropriately.

Aziraphale turned in his chair to ensure that Anthony was behaving. His brow furrowed in confusion. Anthony was leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. Newt’s position mirrored his. Their voices were quiet as they spoke, though Anthony would occasionally interrupt with a, “Sh, sh. I got it. Wait, what’d I do wrong?” What was he doing? It was violent.

His attention was drawn back to Anathema, who had begun to gently pat the baby’s bottom with reassuring shushes. Elfie had awoken, and was beginning to work herself up into a good and proper crying fit. “Newt. Someone needs a changing.”

Newton popped up from the couch without hesitation, much to Crowley’s dismay. “Oy! We were playing here.” A shrug was given. His newfound acquaintance was lost to his domestic responsibilities, and he resumed his focus on the game.

Newt gently cradled the baby to him. “Ech, that’s a right foul one.”

While Elfie was whisked away for a changing, Aziraphale assisted Madame Tracy in preparing tea. It was a nice time. The three sat for teatime, listening with intent as Anathema regaled them with all of the adorable things Elfie did, and her penchant to spit up on Newt. They had quite a lovely time, until the baby grew restless for a meal and a nap. Anathema’s goodbyes were quick kisses to the cheek, before she excused herself. Aziraphale helped clean up one last time.

“Well that was just lovely.” His tone was sarcastic, but it hadn’t been bad. He found he quite liked video games.

Aziraphale’s smile faltered as he buckled up, and sat back into his seat. “Yes, rather.” His tone was distracted as the engine revved and they pulled away.

“Angel?” Crowley spared a glance over at him. “Did Shadwell say something to you?”

“Shadwell? What? No… no. It’s just…” He drew in a quiet breath, and touched his temple to the glass of the window. “She’s going to die… _All_ of them. There’s nothing we can do it about.”

He reached out, and claimed one of his hands. Their fingers twined together, and then Crowley raised Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth. Lips pressed firm and reassuring to knuckles. “We’ll watch over them and make the most of our time with them, angel.” His attention shifted between the road, and Aziraphale. “Where do you want to get dinner?”

He looked away from the window, and tipped his head back against the head rest. His voice remained solemn. This was one of the reasons he had kept his distance from the humans. They were fragile, and gone in a blink. “Oh… wherever. I don’t particularly care.”

While he didn’t precisely feel what Aziraphale did in that moment, he could empathize that his angel was saddened for a not-so-distant loss. “I’ve got just the place…”

And as they drove, Freddie Mercury filled the silence.

_ There’s no time for us_

_ There’s no place for us_

_ What is this thing that builds our dreams,_

_ Yet slips away from us?_

He angled the Bentley across the street from the park. The sun, hidden by clouds, was beginning to sink towards the horizon.

Aziraphale paused for a moment, trying to collect himself and shove away the wave of sadness that had drug him back down. His door opened, and Anthony extended a hand down to him. “Come on, angel.” His fingers curled around the awaiting palm, and he unfolded himself from the seat. He didn’t at first notice the wicker basket until he had fallen into step alongside his dearest. “Anthony…?”

“I figured it’s a great day for a picnic.” He guided Aziraphale across the street.

Though he had been low in his feelings, it was hard to stay down when his love was being so thoughtful. His mouth curved into a pleased smile and he paused once they were out of traffic to wrap his arms around Anthony’s neck. Aziraphale was lifted higher on his toes by the arm that coiled around the small of his back. Their mouths met, and he melted against lean body. For all of his grumpiness, Anthony could be ever so thoughtful.

“Fuckin’ poofs.” A human spat this at them as he passed, and Aziraphale immediately untangled himself from Anthony. His head bowed, and his cheeks turned scarlet in embarrassment.

Crowley didn’t turn completely, but he did cast a glare over his shoulder at the man.

A honk of a car horn, a squeal of tires, and a scream.

Aziraphale was aghast when he turned wide blue eyes from the bus that was splattered with the remnants of the insulting man. “Anthony… _no_.”

“Wot!? I didn’t do that! That wasn’t me! He knew the risks!” His free hand was raised, attempting to show his innocence. Aziraphale looked unconvinced, so he draped an arm over his shoulders and encouraged him back in the direction of the park. “Couldn’t’ve happened to a nicer bloke, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	12. Ye Goode ol' Tymes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Crowley had actually not had anything to do with the accident. It had been an altogether different divine intervention. Another sort of miraculous interference had brought the sun out from behind grey clouds. It fell upon both angel and demon.

Crowley had spread a blanket out for them, and was laying on his right side, head in his palm as he quietly watched Aziraphale finish off the last bite of sushi. The angel hummed appreciatively, eyes closing momentarily to enjoy the last bite. Crowley raised his flute of champagne, and took a sip, his mouth suddenly very dry. He was glad that he could lift Aziraphale’s spirits, but the sounds the angel made as he ate was going to discorporate him one day.

His plate and chopsticks vanished with the snap of Anthony’s fingers, and Aziraphale pulled the basket closer to look inside. He withdrew a small bowel of strawberries and an addition of whipped cream. “These look succulent.” The basket was placed aside again, the fruit set atop the blanket between them. A sip of the bubbling drink cleansed his palate, and hid the smile that warmed under Anthony’s stare. “This is precisely what I needed. Thank you, my love.”

Crowley plucked up one of the strawberries, and twirled it languidly in the white cream. “Huh, there’s my angel. I thought you were going to be brooding all day.” Aziraphale began to protest, but Crowley lifted the fruit, and touched it to his mouth.

His teeth sank into the juicy treat, his tongue trailing out to lick at the white cream. Aziraphale could practically feel the heat of Anthony’s stare, but he couldn’t decipher why it suddenly caused a flush to creep up his neck. It was on par for them. His dearest usually watched him as he enjoyed his food, but the stare under dark glasses felt heavier.

“It’s a beautiful day. Reminds me of that day back in Sparta.” He had to distract himself from the unintentionally provocative angel.

“The day of the feast that started a ten year war?”

“That’s the one. And it wasn’t _all _bad. We were laying as we are now… and, you have to admit, angel, that the food was excellent.”

Aziraphale sighed wistfully. “The stuffed grape leaves _were_ divine.”

**Sparta; 1542 BCE**

Aziraphale had ingratiated himself as an advisor amongst the Trojan royalty. He had fallen into step alongside the Prince of Troy, his hands clasped before him. He was beginning to fret, as was his norm. The angel wanted peace to be established; he had been gently guiding the man with ideas that would be of the betterment for his people. The Prince did not need much urging, though. He had a good heart and a sound head on his shoulders.

His voice dropped to a whisper as they proceeded towards the banquet hall, “Did you truly have to bring him along?” His voice was cautious as he approached the topic of _The Other Prince_.

“My father insisted. He said it was time he learn the finer points of diplomacy.”

“Didn’t you sister say he would bring ruination on your house?” His hands shifted to brush his palms along his white toga.

“My sister has her moments of womanly hysteria.” His tone was dismissive.

“She hasn’t been wrong yet…” His increasing worry was quieted when they entered the great hall, and their party was announced.

The Spartan King was stationed at the head of the long row of couch that seated six. Beside him on a padded bench was his wife, the Spartan Queen. Amongst the dark shades of purple lamb’s wool, golden jewelry, and dark haired people, Aziraphale stood out in stark contrast. The Spartan Queen was alike the angel in this aspect, with her long, soft, strawberry gold curls. He took a sip of his wine, and remained quiet. He was listening intently to the conversation between the Prince and the King. They were getting along quite well.

“Prince Hector… Who’s your friend?”

“Ah! This is Aziraphale,” The Prince leaned over to clap an affection hand to the angel’s shoulder, who winced under the warrior’s strength. “He is one of my most trusted advisors and he’s here to help with the peace treaty…”

“This is a lovely banquet. I so greatly appreciate your hospitality.” Aziraphale’s smile was kind.

The King’s gaze raked over the exotic man, hair nearly as pale as the toga he wore. He stood out in the sea of dark locks. “Well then, I must invite you to see my royal baths after the banquet, and give you a taste of _real_ Spartan hospitality.” His voice was gruff with promise.

Aziraphale’s smile only brightened. “Oh, that sounds absolutely marvelous. I would be delighted.”

“_Hello, _Aziraphale,” His voice was loud and playful, and Aziraphale sat up slightly and glanced behind him.

“Crawley.” The name was a greeting, his smile widening into a delighted grin.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’m here for the peace talk…”

“Peace? Right. Yeah, well I hope that goes well…” His tone held notes of sarcasm.

The King shifted his attention between Aziraphale and Crowley. “Master Crawley. You two know each other?”

“Oh yeah,” Crowley didn’t spare The Other Prince a glance when he gave a gesture of _move_ with his hand, “Budge up. That’s a good lad.” In fact, he had really only been watching Aziraphale, and gave the King a cursory look. “Yeah, Aziraphale and I go _way_ back.”

The angel flushed, and reclined onto his side once more. “Oh, good Lord.”

The Other Prince had not moved aside much, but Crowley was narrow. He slipped his lean frame close to Aziraphale’s back, so close that they were almost touching. His words dropped conspiratorially low, his breath a warm caress against left ear. “Well this is intimate…” Crowley watched in fascination as a blush crept up the angel’s throat.

“Oh, well if he is a friend of yours, he must be a most cherished companion. Do share how you two met…”

“I couldn’t possibly summarize such a tale that would scandalize even you,” His grin reflected how pleased he was with himself. “_Your Royal Excellency_.” His sarcasm was lost on the King.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, perplexed. He wasn’t precisely certain what scandal the demon spoke of. He turned back to his foods and wine.

The King returned his attention to the political matter at hand.

“Lord Crawley, was it?” This was from The Other Prince.

The look he spared the human was exasperated. “A-a-aren’t you the… the peasant boy that became a prince?” He reached for a goblet of wine. “Yeah, yeah, you are. Good on you.” He took a sip of wine and returned his yellow gaze to Aziraphale. Crowley watched with open fascination as he savored the variety of flavors, and nearly discorporated when he moaned quietly.

“What affliction has your eyes?”

Crowley couldn’t look away from Aziraphale. “Affliction? Oh, right, right.” It took effort, but he finally shifted yellow eyes to the prince. “You remember Medusa?”

“The Gorgon?” He was confused.

“She’s me mum.” Crowley finished his wine, then cradled his chin on a fist. His glance was spared around the great hall briefly, touching on The Spartan Queen, then immediately returning to gaze with open longing at the angel. “They say she’s the most beautiful woman in all the world.” He reached for the goblet that had been refilled by a servant.

Aziraphale glanced up quizzically, peering at the humans in the room. The Queen was the only woman in attendance, excluding the few servant women that milled about. “Oh, hmm? Yes. I suppose she’s rather lovely.”

“He better keep her close, or that’ll be the face that launches a thousand ships…” This was mused aloud thoughtfully. “Come on, angel. Peace talk’s going great. Let’s go see some of Sparta.”

“I was so sorry when I heard of Hector’s death… He showed such promise.” Aziraphale sighed, sadly. He lifted the champagne flute for a long drink.

Crowley watched him still. “You know the King had a thing for you?”

Aziraphale nearly choked on the spirits when he gasped. “He most certainly did not!” His tone held his outraged indignation.

Crowley’s smile was wide as he watched Aziraphale. “Oh, my sweet angel. You’re so dense when it comes to these sorts of things. He had Helen, and then this _beautiful_ angel came with the Trojans and stuck out like… like anything with his blonde hair and blue eyes. If I hadn’t come along, who knows what would have happened…”

Aziraphale leaned down to Anthony, his mouth a soft brush against his cheek. “My knight in shining… well, black armor.”

The angel turned his attention back to the strawberries, and dipped another in the whipped cream. Crowley refilled their glasses. He took a bite, eyes closing to savor the sweet flavor. Crowley continued to watch Aziraphale, as he had been doing throughout their history. His sigh was a content sound.

The green stem was placed aside. His gaze dropped to the white cream, then lifted to Anthony. Blue eyes grew wide, and his stomach knotted with unexpected anticipation.

“Angel? What’s wrong…?” He sat up and glanced around.

“Oh, erm… I was just wondering…” His cheeks were hot again. “May I?”

When he returned back to Aziraphale, he relaxed. It hadn’t been fear he had seen in blue eyes. A brow arched dramatically over the edge of sunglasses. “Go ahead.” He watched with interest as Aziraphale dipped and swirled a fresh strawberry into the whipped cream.

His heart was racing, and his tongue was dry. The most amazing idea had occurred to him, and he didn’t want the moment to pass him, as he had let so many moments do. He leaned down, and tentatively trailed the white cream along Anthony’s bottom lip. Aziraphale’s mouth replaced the fruit, and as his tongue traced over the sweet flavor, he moaned.

Crowley had grown still. _Holy shit_. The angel tasted of the sweet berries, cream, and champagne. His free hand found the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and pulled him in closer. Their tongues brushed over one another, and he swallowed the angel’s involuntary whimper.

A hand was placed to Anthony’s chest, and timidly, he pushed against him to urge him onto his back. Though the touch had been gentle, he had complied, and Aziraphale leaned over him. Their mouths remained locked as their background melted away from him; he was consumed by Anthony.

_We’re in a fucking park_. His groan was a frustrated sound against his angel’s mouth. With great reluctance, he broke the kiss. In a fluid movement, he grasped Aziraphale’s hands, and pulled him to his feet as he stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	13. Your Love is a Delicacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Right. Privacy.

Crowley miracled them back to their cottage. The moment they were in the privacy of their library, Crowley began undressing his angel. He wore too many individual pieces of clothing to take his time with. He was on a mission. “Angel, what have I said about all these damn layers?” His voice was gentle and teasing, though his thoughts were on the singular task. _I need him naked, I need him naked._

Aziraphale had no time to process the shift, but the moment Anthony began removing his clothing, he assisted the best he was able to. “You’re absolutely right. It will _not_ happen again, love.” He could feel anticipation knotting inside of him with each layer that was removed, and his voice was a strained whisper. When he was down to his white boxers, he moved compliantly under Anthony’s guidance and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Crowley edged between his angel’s thighs and knelt. His hands cupped to cheeks, and he was drawn in. Lips were soft against his mouth and his thumbs swept gently over soft skin. The kiss was brief, but with his gentle hold on, he angled Aziraphale’s chin down. Mouth pressed to brow, and then was replaced with his own forehead. “_I love you, angel_.”

Arms slid beneath Anthony’s to wrap around his middle. Despite his disconcerting state of undress, his expression was peaceful. “I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of hearing you say that.”

One last kiss was pressed to his angel’s mouth, before he stood and backed a few paces away. He reached for his sunglasses, and tossed them to the side. He watched Aziraphale’s expression as he shrugged out of his jacket. His scarf, then boots and socks, and lastly his large watch, were removed. His movements were methodical; unhurried. The vest buttons were freed, and he pulled it down his arms with a light tug at his lower back. Dexterous fingers found the first button of his shirt that was closed, and slid it clear. He trailed his touch down the center of his stomach, the garment parting that much more as he undid the next buttons. Beneath the thin fabric, he wore no undershirt. He may be a demon, but he was no hypocrite, and thusly had minimized the layers he himself wore.

Aziraphale’s posture was prim and rigid as he watched with rapt fascination. His hands rested unmoving atop his thighs. He was mesmerized when Anthony finally reached the black shirt, and began baring more skin. His gaze was worshipful as he watched. Fingers flexed, and he had to resist the urge to reach up and touch him. His breath grew heavier as the shirt slipped to the ground. It was almost maddening, maintaining his restraint. He greedily drank in each bit of skin he was shown.

He remained outwardly calm under the heaviness of the angel’s intense scrutiny, yet already his arousal ached. He was enjoying the anticipatory look. Snakehead belt dropped to the floor with a clatter of metal buckle, and he shifted his touch to undo the button on his pants and drag down the zipper; slow and precise as he had been.

He could refrain no longer. Aziraphale stood and stilled Anthony’s hands. He hovered for a moment there, studying the soft mouth he was free to kiss whenever he wished. Rising on the balls of his feet, he teased slightly parted lips against Anthony’s in a soft caress.

Fingers tangled into blonde curls, and he bowed his head. He would have been perfectly content with climbing into the bed half clothed, and pleasuring his sweet angel. But that was selfish; he knew of Aziraphale’s inquisitive nature. His body moved devoid of thought, urging the angel back a step towards the bed. The kiss was broken, and his brow drew together as he met blue eyes. “You really have no idea the hold you have on me, angel.” His arms dropped back to his sides, and he took a moment to collect himself.

“I imagine that it’s a reflection of the claim you have on me.” Anthony remained unmoving while Aziraphale eased to his knees. His head was tipped back to stare up over the expanse of exposed flesh. His hands were admiring as they lightly swept over the ridge of sinewy muscles. With great care, he redirected his grip to waistband and drew leather down long legs. He tugged the fabric free with the shift of Anthony’s weight, and tossed the garment aside. “_Anthony…_” He sat back on his haunches. His gaze was admiring as it lingered over Anthony’s black clad masculinity, before lifting to meet yellow eyes.

His expression was inscrutable as he stared down at the angel. When blue eyes rose to meet his own, knuckles swept affectionately down the swell of a soft cheek. Though each of his movements were confident, his heartbeat had hastened. The strain of his arousal against fitted black boxer-briefs was an undeniable indicator of just how much he enjoyed the angel’s adulation of his body.

Palms slid up the front of thighs, the slightest tremble of uncertainty in his touch. One hand tentatively slid across hip bone, then traced a fingertip up the length of Anthony’s arousal. He molded his palm to the covered length, and drew his hand up. Fingers curled into the band of boxer-briefs when he reached it, and guided them down. After the garment was tossed aside, Aziraphale cautiously wrapped his hand around the base of Anthony’s erection. The angel deliberated on _how_ to make his love feel just as good as Anthony had made him feel. His grip slid from base towards head, and testingly caressed his thumb over the velvety tip.

Crowley couldn’t hide his affection for his angel, and it was reflected in the composition of his expression. He wanted to allow him a moment to experiment, but at the same time, he wanted to hold Aziraphale to him. When fingers explored the length of his erection, he drew in a soft breath through teeth, and his head fell back. A low groan vibrated vocal chords with the delicate brush against sensitive skin.

His grip moved down the length of Anthony, then back up. He could feel the flex and pulse of the hardness in his grip. “You are just… you’re _magnificent._” He was beautiful and Aziraphale wanted to make Anthony feel the bliss that had been given to him. Blue eyes rose, studying his expression as his tongue parted lips, and teased shyly up the length of his erection.

His breath stuttered in his chest, and trembling fingers tangled in blonde curls, allowing him to gently tip Aziraphale’s head back. Snake eyes met blue, and he exhaled a shaky breath. “Plenty of time for that, angel.” His voice was quiet and rough, the words calculated before they were spoken. His free hand curled around the wrist that held his arousal, grip firm. Crowley drew him back up to his feet, slipped his arm around his neck, and drew him into his chest with a press of to the small of his back. A dip of his head sealed their mouths together. It was maddening that he found he could never get quite enough of Aziraphale. He pushed forward, and carefully edged his angel back the few steps to the bed. When it met the back of thighs, he was bent back and guided carefully to the mattress. The kiss lingered for another moment, before he drew himself back up.

A quiet moan was sighed against the kiss. He could feel the heat of Anthony’s arousal against his lower abdomen. The kiss was broken when Anthony straightened. “Up you go, angel.” Aziraphale shifted himself until he was centered in the bed, his shoulders and head supported by the pile of pillows. When he was joined, his thighs parted invitingly, and an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

Crowley wasn’t far behind the angel. Lean frame shifted between thighs and guided them to rest atop his own. One hand molded to the outside of the limb resting over his, fingers gripping into muscle. He stretched up, and their mouths joined, tongues teasing against one another. Fingers slid along Aziraphale’s side, goosebumps left in the wake of his light touch. He drank the angel’s quiet moan.

The grazing touch tickled, and he writhed slightly, fingers tugging gently on red strands. White cotton rubbed against his erection, which was trapped between them. His breathing grew increasingly heavier. His hips shifted again, a brief grind of his pelvis against Anthony. Another moan.

The kiss broke with his quiet chuckle. He had never anticipated that his sweet angel would be so _eager. _His mouth hovered near Aziraphale’s, his gaze lifting to blue. Crowley sat back, watching the creep of pink to cheeks.

“I’ve never been a fan of instant gratification, Anthony… but I would not be opposed if you… instantly gratified me.” He placed an elbow to the bed, and rose up on it.

“Oh, angel. Where’s the fun in that?” His tone was light, a brow arching.

“Since when are you so keen on fun?”

“I’m a big fan of fun. Huge fan of it when it has you under me.” A hand rested against Aziraphale’s lower abdomen. A sharp snap of the other invoked an ornate silver platter, atop which were pale gold bowls of ripe, plump strawberries and whipped cream. He watched the confusion wrinkle Aziraphale’s brows as he reached for one of the berries, and twirled it thoroughly in the cream. A hand braced to the bed, and he leaned forward to stretch above him. The strawberry was held a breath above Aziraphale’s lips and when chin lifted to take a bite, Crowley removed the fruit and met the angel’s mouth with his own. The kiss was short lived. White cream was teased along the swell of bottom lip, then drawn down and rolled over pale skin, painting a line down to navel. His spine bowed so that he could press his mouth to skin. Lips were replaced with tongue.

He gladly accepted the kiss instead of the fruit and he grew instinctively still when Anthony supplanted his mouth with the cream, and moved it down. His eyes were wide and round in shock. His breath caught in his chest when tongue touched to skin and began to lick away the sweet treat, and head tipped back with eyes closed. “_Oh… oh, Heaven._” Anthony lingered on his throat, drawing the skin into his mouth for a light bite. His whimper was an answer to the sting of teeth and fingers pressed encouragingly to the back of Anthony’s head.

He framed bottom lip between his own, licking away the remnants of the sweetness. The strawberry he had used as a paintbrush was brought to his own mouth, the green head tossed onto the platter. “Mm. Delicious.” His eyes closed as he savored the fruit, rolling it over taste buds.

Eyes remained wide as he watched Anthony, his breathing quick and shallow. Aziraphale would never had assumed that one of his favorite pastimes could be even more intriguing than it already was. Tongue traced over his own lips as he stared with open longing at Anthony’s mouth. He had never wanted to taste strawberry as much as he did in that moment.

“Would you like a taste, angel?” He studied Aziraphale’s longing expression.

“Y—“ He cleared his throat, and tried again. “_Yes_…”

The messy cream hadn’t been isolated only to Aziraphale, but also coated both index and middle finger that were brought up. Slender fingers traced gently over bottom lip, leaving a line of cream invitingly.

His tongue tentatively brushed against fingertips as he met Anthony’s yellow eyes. Lips parted further, and he drew up to the first knuckle in his mouth. His tongue slid against skin and between digits. His mouth opened wider, taking more in. Pressure was applied as he sucked gently, a caress rubbed to the underside of fingers. Anthony’s gaze had grown voracious.

He slipped fingers free with a pop of suction, and cupped a hand to the back of Aziraphale’s head. His kiss was hungry and demanding. The angel was a paradox to him; so innocent, yet so very tempting. Crowley’s body crowded against him, urging him to lay back.

Palms slid along shoulders, down biceps. His mouth was soft and willing beneath the kiss, but as Anthony attempted to guide him back, a hand pressed to his chest haltingly. When he leaned back to look down at him, Aziraphale flushed crimson. “Anthony… ah…” He stammered over his words. “May I…?”

Brows raised slightly with the angel’s hesitation. _May I?_ He had to clear his throat before he could answer. Just the thought of Aziraphale’s mouth exploring him caused his heart to race. “By all means.” His voice was surprisingly calm, despite the prospect of his angel’s resumed study. Minding the platter, Crowley shifted to the left, and stretched out on his back with his arms folded and head resting in the cup of palms – relaxed.

He shifted to a sitting position onto his knees. Teeth tugged briefly at his bottom lip as his gaze raked the length of Anthony’s body, then rose to meet uncovered serpent, yellow eyes, Aziraphale breathed a quiet sigh. “Oh, Anthony… Have I ever confessed how beautiful your eyes are?”

His jaw grit, and instinctively, his gaze averted with an angle of his chin. “No.” It was stated firmly, perhaps more to himself. How could anyone find beauty in his most reviled attribute?

A feather-light stroke of fingertips along a cheekbone and a gentle guidance to redirect Anthony’s gaze to his own. “Well, then I’m glad I’ve rectified that.” Anthony’s blush was almost unnoticed, save that he could feel the heat of it beneath his touch. Aziraphale stretched up, a soft kiss brushed to the corner of his mouth. He returned his attention to the treats at hand. Rather than taking possession of a strawberry, he dipped a finger directly into the cream. Just as hesitant as he had been in the park, he touched the cream to bottom lip. Leaning down, he shyly cradled lower lip between his own, the tip of his tongue used to lick away the sweet flavor. He leaned back just enough to search Anthony’s carefully composed expression. A gentle press to chin angled Anthony’s jaw, and bowed head kissed away the creamy print he had left behind. His touch sought lower, a white trail traced down the side of neck. His breath was warm as he hovered for a moment. The tip of his tongue eased out, and moved up, his mouth moving against the spot just behind earlobe.

He remained unmoving under the kiss, then lifted his chin as guided. He couldn’t silence his low groan at the feel of mouth and tongue. For a moment, his eyes closed to concentrate on the sensation. The absence of mouth permitted Crowley to return his gaze to the angel as he dipped his finger back into the cream.

A line followed the curve of clavicle, then down to just above the right nipple. Aziraphale didn’t follow the same direction that Anthony had. Instead, he started along the dip above bone. His descent was slower, the treat removed with a press of his mouth to skin, and a sweep of the flat of his tongue. When he reached the end of the trail, he sought just a bit lower and teased over taut left nipple.

His attention was not diverted from his angel. Crowley watched as his hesitance was replaced with a spark of confidence and the urge to touch him was impossibly hard to resist. When the angel’s warm mouth moved over sensitive skin, his chin lifted. Lids fluttered closed and eyes rolled. Tension crept through muscles, and he struggled to relax, his breath a harsh inhale through grit jaw. By the time he had regained his fortitude and looked down, Aziraphale had shifted down.

He was planning to explore, quite thoroughly, his lower half, so he made himself more comfortable. The cream was placed closer for ease of access, and his left elbow pressed to the bed to keep him somewhat upright with his legs stretched towards the edge of mattress. A finger was dipped back into the cream, then traced along hip bone. While he licked away the treat, he studied Anthony’s arousal. He paused for a moment, considering, then returned his index finger back for another dip. A white line was drawn down the length of shaft. Blue eyes drifted back up to study Anthony’s face. His tongue’s contact was light as it cleaned away the flavor.

His jaw remained locked as he watched his every move and anticipation coiled inside of him when he moved onto his side. He met Aziraphale’s eyes, and searched for any hesitation or doubt. Crowley didn’t want his angel to feel uneasy. His attention flicked to stare sightlessly up at the high ceiling when tongue moved against his erection, and his jaw dropped. He had to force snake eyes back down to stare at his remarkable angel.

The small bowl was placed back onto the platter. With more cream on his finger, he traced around the tip, then made a trail back down the length of shaft. Again, his tongue made contact, though he was less timid and the flat of it moved from the bottom of the white trail up to tip. Lips closed over flared head, and cheeks indented slightly with the testing pressure of his mouth. While he hadn’t any clue what he was truly doing, he could recall how it had felt when he had been in the warm depths of Anthony’s mouth. Demurely, he used not just the tip of his tongue, but also the flat of it, to caress around velvety head and sweep over slit. Remembering the feel of the slickness under Anthony’s stroking grip on his own hardness, Aziraphale ensured his palm was just as lubricated.

Crowley watched the head of his arousal disappear into his angel’s mouth and almost orgasmed. He considered looking away, distracting his mind from the incredible sight of Aziraphale pleasuring him, but couldn’t. It only added to just how amazing it felt. _Shit._ Teeth captured bottom lip, the bite hard. His breath trembled, and a groan caught in his throat. The fluid glide of Aziraphale’s hand was hesitantly slow and loose, but became firmer and claimed a more confident rhythm. Serpent’s eyes rolled, and his breath hitched. A moment, and his gaze flicked back down, jaw slack. He kept one hand supporting his head, but lowered the other to sweep fingers through the blonde curls he loved. “_Angel…_” It was a growled sound that was forced through grit jaw.

He was encouraged by the gratified sounds of his love. His head lifted, but he continued the stroke of his hand. Thumb swept over the soft tip, swirling in a circle, before caressing down shaft. Anthony’s expression was dark, his face tense with focus. Aziraphale was immensely pleased by this, and couldn’t help but smile up at him. When he turned back to his erection, he molded his tongue against the shaft and licked experimentally up the length of him. He was awarded with another low, primal sound. Lips nuzzled affectionately against the delightfully soft tip, before taking him back into his mouth. His stroke moved from base up to where he held Anthony in his mouth, then back down with a rotation of his wrist. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Fingers flexed into blonde curls for a brief moment, before his grip relaxed. He had anticipated that it would feel good, but hadn’t been able to predict just how much the angel would appear to enjoy it. Crowley tried to control his shallow breaths, and struggled to push away the release that Aziraphale was drawing nearer. _Breathe. Breathe. _He was too close. His stomach knotted, and a heel dug into the mattress. _Breathe_. Crowley fought to maintain control of his own body. He warred against the urge to succumb and find release with the angel’s mouth. _Fuck_. The thought alone nearly pushed him over. His grip was unintentionally harsh in the angel’s hair as he lifted his head. It was with a fluid movement that his knees were under him, and he used his fist in the halo of curls to flip Aziraphale onto his back. The platter clattered to the floor when he swept it over the edge of the bed. White boxers were tugged down the angel’s hips and thrown aside with strawberries and cream. Crowley slid between thighs, then leaned down to cover Aziraphale’s mouth with his own.

His gasp caught in his throat from the hard hold in his hair, but the sharp pain only fueled his own desire. His pulse fluttered in his throat when Anthony forced him to his back. Thighs molded to hips, and he wrapped an arm around tense shoulders to draw him closer with a palm between shoulder blades. His chin lifted, firmly sealing their hungry kiss.

A hand slipped between them, and he took hold of Aziraphale’s arousal. His hand was wet and lubricated when he began to stroke his erection. Crowley was still fighting back the urge to bury himself in Aziraphale and reach climax. With a hand braced to the bed near shoulder, he broke the kiss to stare down into blue eyes. “Let me know when you’re close, yeah?”

He couldn’t articulate his agreement; all that was managed was a nod. Lips parted, and his eyes closed. His expression was peaceful, save for the slight wrinkle between his brows. Anthony’s stroking was determined and knowledgeable. “_Oh_…” Hips moved against the hand subtly, and when teeth nipped at his throat, Aziraphale moaned. “_An-anthony… close_…”

He shifted his knees, spreading them wider for better support of his bowed position. The hand that had rested against the bed moved to his own erection. As he continued to draw his angel closer towards climax, Crowley used his other hand to add more lubricating wetness to his arousal. _Close_. After guiding the head of himself to Aziraphale’s entrance, he returned his palm to the mattress. His stroking of the angel didn’t falter as he pressed his hips carefully forward. Crowley’s mouth covered Aziraphale’s, drinking the satisfied moan that was breathed as he was filled. Crowley hesitated a moment, but Aziraphale lifted his hips, greedily taking more of him. _Fuck. _The angel’s thirst was almost his undoing.

The kiss was broken as his head canted back into the sheets. Right arm remained around Anthony’s shoulders, but the left fell to the bed, taking grasp of bed linen. “_Oh… hell…_” His chest was jerking with his harsh breaths. Crowley’s stroking was unrelenting, his release tantalizingly near. Crowley was moving inside of him, a determined thrusting that buried him to the hilt. “_An-Anthony… Anthony… more.._.” It was a desperate plea that was blessedly heeded. Aziraphale tried to fight back his release, but Anthony forced it from him. His jaw dropped open, and between gasps for breath, he moaned. His climax spilled onto his stomach, each wave of pleasure encouraged by the stroke against sensitive inner walls, and Anthony’s grasp.

Crowley watched his angel’s features, the way they softened as the pleasure overtook him. His thrusts were insistent, pushing Aziraphale towards orgasm. The concentrated wrinkle between brows, the way his jaw dropped, and blue eyes rolled as his angel climaxed was too much for Crowley. His head bowed, burying his face into the crook of neck. His growl was a threatening sound when he at last allowed himself to succumb to release. When he was certain that his angel was satisfied, Crowley allowed himself to drop to the bed to the left of Aziraphale. The stickiness of their climax was gestured away as Crowley drew him close.

Aziraphale situated himself on his side, tucked in close to Anthony, who lay on his back. His cheek rested against the crook of shoulder, his breath hard to catch. His body tingled wonderfully as fingers lazily traced shapes on Anthony’s chest.

“I assume you enjoyed it?” This was murmured against blonde hair with a lift of his head. He tried to hide the slight raise of his voice that was tinged with worry.

As embarrassed as he was to address the topic, Aziraphale felt it was better to be forthcoming. He fingers traced the lemniscate symbol. “Obviously. Are we able to…” He considered his words, and bowed his head into Anthony’s chest in an attempt to hide how flustered he was. “…commence again?”

“Angel…” He was pulled more tightly into him, almost protectively. “I don’t wanna push you too far…”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, Anthony…” His mouth was a gentle brush against clavicle. “Do you know the best way to… to conquer those reservations?” Aziraphale attempted to feel the Heavenly shame that he _should _feel after what they had done, but he couldn’t. Each time was beautiful, and felt too divine for it to be sinful.

His fingers were infinitely gentle when they pressed to the underside of Aziraphale’s chin. An elbow was braced to the bed, and he sat up slightly. “You are going to be the death of me, angel.” The brush of his mouth was gentle; a reassuring kiss. “But what a way to go.” This was a growl as he cradled a guarding hand to the base of Aziraphale’s skull, and shifted their positions so that the angel’s back was to the mattress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	14. Oscar the Wilde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Presently, they sat in his personal IMAX theatre – the door across the hall from the library. As of recent, Crowley had found it very difficult to find activities for the two to participate in that wouldn’t devolve instantly into rigorous physical exertions.

As opposed to individual seating, there was a large, plush sofa in a shade of deep crimson, and built into the arms were cup holders deep enough to support wine glasses. A dark grey marble coffee table was empty, save for the demon’s bare feet that were crossed at the ankles. In his left hand, he nursed a glass of scotch, though he hadn’t finished even the first glass quite yet. Crowley was slouched in the left corner, with his angel at his side. Aziraphale was turned completely, his back resting against Crowley, legs stretched across the length of the sofa’s cushion. The images on the screen were brutal, the language inappropriate, but he was engrossed in his book. An arm rested loosely over Aziraphale’s shoulder, thumb idly stroking upper arm that was covered in the soft fabric of a powder blue raglan sweater.

The anti-hero movie wasn’t too far in, when Crowley turned his head, and pressed his mouth to the nape of his angel’s neck. His grip shifted, wrapping across the front of Aziraphale’s chest to tightly clutch to the other shoulder, drawing him back against Crowley. The scene was almost too much, his emotions still too raw after the fire. He had expected gore, action, and comedy; not something that forced his heart into his throat. His cheek nestled into soft blonde curls, anchoring himself to the present and reassuring himself that his angel was with him.

A smile curled at the corners of his lips with the tightening of the embrace, though he didn’t glance up from his signed first edition copy of Don Quixote de La Mancha. Blessedly, the lights had been left dimmed so that he could read. “Anthony? Are you quite alright?” The answer was a rub of cheek against his hair, and Aziraphale clutched to the forearm that held him.

The screen had gone black after the credits had stopped rolling, and Crowley finished the remainder of his drink. It refilled. “Damn good movie, ‘cept for all that at the beginning... and throughout.” His grip on Aziraphale hadn’t lessened much during the film. Now, without it claiming most of his attention, he studied the expanse of neck that was bared with the angel’s bowed head. His mouth moved against the soft skin.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Anthony.” This was murmured absently, his focus still concentrated on his book.

He took a drink from the glass, his head tipping to rest against the back of the sofa. “Angel, what are you wearing?”

The book was closed, and Aziraphale allowed himself to relax back enough to lean against Anthony’s chest. “Have you been ruminating on that, love?”

Crowley stammered, his tone appalled. “Wot? No. I don’t do that.”

“You _forbade _me from wearing… what did you call it? _All those layers_. So I’m wearing a _sweater_.” His tone was mildly exasperated.

Again, he stumbled over his words. “Eh, I wouldn’t call it forbade. Anyway, I think you’re remembering things incorrectly.”

If they had been facing one another, Anthony would have seen the angel’s doubtful expression.

“Come on, angel. Let’s go for a walk.”

It was a nice day to be out. The cool wind swept through blonde curls, the sun warm on his face. They were alone at the beach, a miracle in itself. Anthony wore only his thin black shirt and fitted leather pants. The angel wore his powder blue button down, and tartan bowtie, though in favor of his heavy coat and waistcoat, he had opted for a soft cream sweater. Both were barefoot, with Aziraphale’s tan trousers primly rolled up to his ankles, mirroring Anthony’s. The isolation of their surroundings allowed his thoughts to wander, and as sometimes they did, he dwelled on the little things he had done since his Creation that fell short of angelic. He was deeply flawed, and it left him feeling such guilt. How could he remain bathed in Her love, but _his _love was left bereft? “Anthony…?” His voice was quiet. Pensive. Aching.

Despite the serenity of the moment, Crowley was on alert, constantly assessing their surroundings. “Hmm?” It was a distracted sound. The first annual anniversary of the Not-Armageddon had come and gone, and they had heard not even the faintest whisper from Heaven or Hell. That only made Crowley more suspicious. They were plotting.

“I just…” Waves teased at their ankles, the sand soft underfoot. His fingers tightened reflexively on Anthony’s, then fell away. “I’ve never thanked you for the infinite kindness you’ve always shown me.” Aziraphale absently tugged at the hem of his sweater, and his head bowed to lower his gaze. “I… I’ve never been a good enough angel. It was always made abundantly clear. And then I gave away my flaming sword, a-a-and…” He drew in a deep breath, his worry a trapped fluttering of his pulse frantically in his throat “…and rather than reinforcing that I had done the wrong thing… you were _so kind_.” A wrinkle furrowed his brow. “So… thank you, Anthony. For everything. But most importantly, for striking up conversation atop the Wall.”

He paused when the angel did, turning to face him. Serpent’s eyes were intent on Aziraphale’s downcast features, and Crowley softened. “Oh, angel.” It was said with such compassion, a compassion that Crowley had felt for this one, pure being six thousand years ago. Aziraphale was folded into him, and Crowley rested his cheek to the top of blonde curls. “It started off as a purely selfish endeavor, angel.” His voice was light with the attempt to smooth away Aziraphale’s anxieties that Crowley couldn’t miraculously heal.

He sank gratefully into Anthony’s warmth, and as his eyes closed, he grounded himself to the present by breathing in the familiar scent of him. Fingers trailed up the length of his spine through the thin fabric. “I am blessed to have you in my life.”

He frowned. Crowley had never told him about his _trial_ with the angels. It had been an odd shift of perspective for him. His thoughts had always strayed to _how bad can Heaven really be? Oh, you received a strongly worded note, how dreadful. _But the truth of the matter was, it was just as cold and empty as Hell. Heaven and all the angels just happened to be more aesthetically pleasing. His voice was low, though it didn’t completely encapsulate the humor he fought for. There was too much truth for it to be a joke. “_Best bad decision I’ve ever made._”

He could feel his heart skip a beat (_he hoped it never stopped doing that_) when Anthony spoke, his voice a deep timber that caressed to the very depths of his soul. “_Bad_?” Aziraphale found indignation through his self-pitying, and he tipped his head back to frown up at him, bottom lip a small pout. “You cheeky de—“ The word was cut short abruptly. Color drained from him, and he felt his stomach drop to his toes. Aziraphale had been ever so careful to put aside topics or references of Anthony’s Fallen status because he knew that he was trying to extricate himself from his past.

Mechanically, he fell back a step, noticeable distance put between demon and angel. As his eyebrows arched above black lenses, his shoulders lifted and stance became reflexively guarded. “Demon?” Neutral.

“Anthony… I…” A hand reached up, and he curled his fingers around the thin, grey scarf. It was a light touch, but one that was a quiet plea that Anthony not pull away. His eyes were wide, his expression one that was beyond mortified, but also shame and guilt and _how stupid are you, Aziraphale?_ “I’m _so, _so sorry… you _know_ you’re not a demon to me.”

As much as the single word stabbed him, he could see the horror on Aziraphale’s face. He knew that his sweet angel was going to punish himself over the slip more than Crowley ever could. The hurt was pushed down to be assessed in the solitude of their bed after Aziraphale was asleep. Sunglasses were shifted up, and palms cupped cheeks. With a lowering of shoulder, and a tip of his head, reptilian gaze met blue. His expression was uncharacteristically somber, but he wanted to ensure that he broke through Aziraphale’s concern. “Hear me when I say this, angel. I know you didn’t mean it untoward, and I don’t want you fretting over this later.” He could see the doubt still cloud blue eyes. Left thumb stroked reassuring and gentle against smooth skin. His mouth touched first to the wrinkle between brows in an attempt to kiss away the worry, then to lips.

He began gently rubbing fingers once more. On most occasions, he was easily reassured by Anthony, but it was presently difficult to dispel his anxiety. Aziraphale met the imploring gaze, and sank into the calming caress against his cheek. “I just... I know it pains you, Anthony, and I don’t want to be the cause of your pain.”

“It’s alright.” His touch was insistent when he claimed Aziraphale’s left hand to stop the fidgeting, and fingers laced together. The arm was drawn up, and he pressed a kiss first along the bridge of knuckles, then to the soft flat of back of hand, and then, because Crowley couldn’t resist, to the inside of his wrist. “Come on, angel.” He turned to pull him into step alongside him, free hand dropping sunglasses back into place.

A sharp whine pierced the privacy of their bubble when his foot came down. “Wot the—“ His hand fell away from Aziraphale’s so he could rotate in place, water splashing. He had followed the movement as it shifted behind him, drawing his attention downward. “Shit. It’s a bloody dog. Go on, mongrel.” A sneer, with a shooing gesture.

A startled gasp echoed after the whine, and he spun as Anthony did. The dog in question was cowering, its head dipped and shoulders raised. Aziraphale drew in a sharply inhaled breath, and squatted down. “Anthony! It’s just a puppy.” The mongrel in question was a young Corgi, sandy blonde and white, though that was difficult to discern. He was wet, and mud matted his fur, which was patchy in places. Ribs were too visible. The angel scooped up the pup without hesitation, and cradled the wet animal to the warmth of his chest.

“No.” It was a firm statement. He watched as his angel stood, holding the filthy creature to him. “Aziraphale.” He tried to verbally put his foot down.

“You poor creature. Oh, sweet dear.” He held the dog to him, fingers gently sliding over a limp paw that had likely been stepped on. A little miracle fixed the injury. “Oh, there you go. I bet that feels _much _better.”

“Oh, angel, no.” He took a step back, as if adding distance would help discourage the angel’s inclination to help the infirmed. He could see where this was going, and he needed to end it before it could get well on its way.

“Anthony… it’s so skinny… and cold and _sick_.” It was a personal affront to the angel that the sweet animal was so unwell. It needed a good healing that couldn’t be given in just a few moments.

“_No._” He rolled his head back, and he gestured out to his angel. It was a silent prayer. Or rather, a silent argument on precisely why it was he found his… _what? Boyfriend? Partner?_

“He needs our help. Just for tonight, Anthony. Please? We’ll find him a home in the morning…” The creature had his attention, and he clucked his tongue sadly.

Crowley growled, a low sound of frustration in his throat. “Fine, fine. But if you haven’t found it a home, I’m taking it to the…” He waved a hand dramatically as he grappled for phrasing. “…the dog catcher, or whatever the bloody humans do with spare beasts… before it closes tomorrow evening.” He sneered down at the dog, but Aziraphale had drawn it up to his cheek so two pairs of wide, guileless eyes pleaded with him.

Aziraphale was wrist deep in murky water, his fingers thoroughly but gently scrubbing matted fur. This was his second go with rinsing the poor creature, and the water was still muddy. “Oh, you sweet dear. I know you’re scared. But don’t worry. You’re quite safe. Anthony won’t let anything happen to you. He hasn’t let me down ever.”

A hip was cocked against the white marble counter that was veined in gold, his arms folded across his chest. His scowl only darkened further as Aziraphale praised him, his gaze unflinching in its study of his profile. Aziraphale had stripped down to his trousers and pale blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Crowley was distracted for a moment by Aziraphale’s state of undress. Hell must have frozen over. “Now don’t go getting attached to that _thing_…”

He was humming quietly, reassuring. The small dog was shivering, though the water was pleasantly temperate. He was coming around, though. Each loving caress, and soothing sound was aiding in putting the pup at ease. “There we go. Yes, that’s much better, isn’t it?” The water that ran through fur was now clear

His head rolled to the side, and he crossed his ankles more comfortably. “Angel, I’m serious.” He could hear the affection in Aziraphale’s voice, and knew that it could only mean trouble. “I don’t want you getting upset when it leaves tomorrow.”

The poor creature was given a thorough look over while Aziraphale rinsed it a last time, his touch was a healing one for abrasions, mangy fur patches, and intestinal worms. “Oh, there you are, Oscar. We’re almost done, and then we’ll get you some nice kibble and water.”

Crowley felt that as long as he maintained his voice of reason, Aziraphale would be grounded to the reality that the dog couldn’t stay. But then he named it. “_Angel_. You _can’t _give it a name.” He stammered now, trying to adequately voice his doubts. “No. I… out of the question. I demand that you take back its name.”

“Obviously he needs a name, Anthony. How will he listen, otherwise?” Aziraphale was using a thick, white towel to gently dry the dog. “Oh, look how _handsome_ you are, Oscar. I bet you just feel better already, hmm?”

He tried so hard to cling to his internal voice of reason. A dog was complicated. “Aziraphale. They’re messy and… and repugnant.” He was losing the fight. His angel looked so _happy_ as he stroked the mongrel. His thoughts shifted back to a worry that had been vocalized in the Bentley – the humans that Aziraphale cared for would die, and they would have to bear witness to it. But the humans often had pets throughout their lives, and loved them for the short time they were with them. Crowley groaned in frustration, and unfolded his arms. He sauntered the short distance to the angel. His chin came to rest to the top of his shoulder, arms encircling Aziraphale’s middle. He stared down at the beast and sneered distastefully, but it was half-hearted, now. Aziraphale held the dog, wrapped in a towel that was miracled dry.

Oscar the Puppy was snuggled against the angel’s warm chest, and supported with one arm as they perused _Chelsea’s Dogs_. “Oh! _Anthony!_ Isn’t this absolutely _perfect_?” Aziraphale turned, and with his free hand, he held up a yellow canine coat.

Crowley was stuck pushing the trolley behind him, his expression put-upon. “Eh, I dunno, angel. Looks a bit small for you…”

Aziraphale held it up to the pup, analyzing that the size was appropriate. “It’s not for _me, _Anthony.” His eyes rolled as he corrected him, and then added the coat to the trolley.

He was tittering with excitement as he picked up soft toys that made the most adorable squeaking. Oscar’s ears twitched, and he sniffed at the soft toy apple, before licking at the angel’s hand that held the item. He clucked his tongue, and his tone was affectionate. “Oh, sweet dear. Yes, you must have this one, as well.”

His head rolled back to stare up, though his eyes had closed behind his sunglasses. He looked as if he was contemplating his life choices. If only Hell could see him now. “It’d be a lot faster if I just took this whole shop and moved it down the ways from our cottage.”

Aziraphale gasped and turned to stare in horror at Anthony. “You wouldn’t _dare_.”

Crowley lowered his gaze to the angel, an eyebrow cocked over the edge of sunglasses, challenging. “Wouldn’t I?” Unfortunately, he was surrounded by the oppressive dog merchandise. Two stuffed toys were held up for assessment. “You think it’s more of a tequila or champagne mutt?”

Aziraphale’s look was cutting exasperation. He, too, was contemplating his life choices. However, when blue eyes fell back on Anthony, his expression reflected just how fond he was of the not-demon.

“I agree. Tequila is the way to go.” He tossed in first the tequila, then on second thought, added the champagne.

A small voice cut through their moment of silence, “_Puppy!_” Down the aisle, a small girl tugged at her mother’s hand. The light of Heaven practically radiated from the angel as he knelt down to eye level of the child that had dragged her mother closer. Children and animals; he couldn’t be any more pleased.

“Better watch it; it’s got rabies.” He frowned at the little human.

“Hello, my dear. Don’t mind my boyfriend.” Blue eyes flicked up to Anthony briefly. So much was conveyed in that look – pride, amusement, affection, and a dash of smugness. Aziraphale knew _precisely _that the term would needle Anthony.

“_Wot?_” A cocked eyebrow, and his hands slipped into the pockets of leather pants, thumbs hooked over the edge. Like a physical blow, he rocked back on his heels. Crowley fought desperately against his grin, but failed, so he hid it with a turn of his head. _Shit. _Despite how satisfied he was with the acknowledgement, _at long last, _of their relationship, there was a tug of discontent. Boyfriends suggested a lack of permanence, which a relationship that had spanned six thousand years was so much more than.

Aziraphale continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “He’s a Scrooge but harmless, and Oscar is perfectly healthy.” He smiled reassuringly at the little girl.

He finally found his voice, and it dripped with contempt, as if _he _were scandalized. “I’m not a _boy_, angel.”

“Oh, well, what would you prefer I call you? Hm? My man-friend? It doesn’t hold the same…” A dramatic flair of a wrist. “…_je ne sais quoi_.”

Crowley sneered, lovingly, at Aziraphale. “By the way, _angel, _I meant that the _human _has rabies.”

His brief glance up at Anthony was withering.

The mother’s look was first bemused over the banter, and then affronted, though her smile eased under the kindness of the blonde. “It’s so refreshing seeing such a precious little family shopping together.”

The child’s hazel eyes were wide as she reached hesitantly out to the pup. He had begun to wiggle in mild excitement. “Sir, may I pet your puppy? I’ve always wanted a Corgi!”

The silence was almost oppressive, and Oscar whined. A reassuring hand was stroked over ears that had laid flat. Aziraphale stood, and as he was doing so, Anthony rounded the trolley. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I figured we needed privacy.” He gestured to the girl that had stopped, along with time. “The kid wants the dog. You’re an angel. It’s natural that you give her the dog.”

“We can’t give Oscar away to the first strangers we meet.” His voice was factual.

“Why not? The mutt picked out the first strangers he saw at the beach.” He frowned at the dog that whined up at him. “Don’t give me that,”

“I’ve read dogs can sense people’s intentions. Perhaps he picked us out because he trusts us.”

“You said you were going to get rid of it, angel.”

Aziraphale looked crestfallen as he shifted his attention down to the puppy. “I… I… _Oh_…” He had no valid argument on why he _couldn’t _give the child their pup. Nails gently scratched at the base of a long ear. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right.”

“Brilliant.” He didn’t return to where he had been prior to the pause of time, but instead paced behind Aziraphale as he knelt. A snap returned movement into life around them, and the mother’s startled look at the demon was cautious.

“Well, my dear. It just so happens that Oscar,” Fingers lovingly stroked against the soft fur. He was trying to hide his disappointment, and failing. “…well, Oscar needs a new home…”

The little girl’s eyes were even wider now, and she gazed hopefully up at her mother. “Oh, that’s very kind, but her father is deathly allergic to dogs.”

Crowley’s arms were spread wide, his exasperation vocalized loudly.

The girl’s nose crinkled, and she leaned in close to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear, “He gets all red and puffy and icky, and that makes me sad. I’ve _always_ wanted a puppy, and all I gots is a fish.” She was now face to face with Oscar, who showered her with his kiss on her cheeks while she pet his back.

“Well, you know what I think? I think that if you return home and give you father a big hug, it just might be the medicine he needs for his affliction.” He was not willing to part with the newest addition to his own little _family. _The thought of it was an odd concept, but the more he considered it, the more it felt **right**. He could at least bless the girl with a minor miracle.

The child’s smile was broad, and a kiss was given to the top of Oscar’s head. Mother and daughter resumed their shopping, while Aziraphale rose, delighted.

“We’re meant to be flying _under_ the radar, angel. We can’t do that if all of bloody England is going to stop us to… to see the beast.” With trolley in tow, Crowley paused with Aziraphale near the treats. He reached for an oversized bone that was nearly larger than the dog.

“I believe that bone is perhaps too large for Oscar.”

Crowley’s expression scrunched mockingly. “You’re looking at it all wrong. The runt’s too small for the bone.”

Aziraphale frowned in indignation at Anthony. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

“I won’t. It can’t understand us.” He glowered at the dog, but it appeared undaunted. “Come on, angel. Let’s get the little beast home.” Crowley couldn’t make Aziraphale give up the animal, not with how he was looking at it. Crowley softened.

China clinked quietly as he returned teacup to saucer. His back was supported by pillows, and the blanket was pulled up and folded over his lap. There was nary a wrinkle in the fabric that covered him. Resting atop the covers, and curled into a little ball, was Oscar. Aziraphale had resumed his book from the theatre. Rain pattered lightly against the window behind their bed.

Crowley was reclined back into the pillows, which gave some elevation to his upper body. His left arm was folded behind his head, with the right stretched between him and Aziraphale. Right leg was angled with heel to inner knee, the other straight and peeking from under blankets that were rumpled over him. Fingers idly drew circles into the powder blue fabric of the long pajamas that the angel wore. He was sightlessly studying the ceiling and wasn’t filling the silence – he was analyzing the nuances of his existence.

Oscar lifted his head, little jaw dropping in a yawn. Small body slid over the edge of Aziraphale’s lap to the mattress between angel and demon and stretched his muscles out. The tired puppy padded to Crowley, circled itself three times, and then curled his body against the being’s hip. His head rested into the crook of thigh and hip, eyes closing. Crowley’s head tipped and his gaze lowered. It was almost as endearing as his angel, and he couldn’t find it in him to shove the mutt away.

Aziraphale watched the puppy as he got comfortable against Anthony, then shifted his attention up to study his expression. The fact that he didn’t push the dog away was indication of his softness. The book was closed, and his glasses were removed. A small gesture returned them to his desk, and the teacup and saucer were put away in the cupboard, cleaned. He had been attempting to distract his shame from coming to the forefront of his thoughts, but he was no longer able to do so. His throat was cleared, and he waited until yellow eyes rose to meet blue. “Anthony… I want to apologize about what happened earlier today.”

“Aziraphale. I don’t mind the dog. I knew the second that you picked the little runt up that he would be coming home with us.” His fingers continued their gentle caress.

He dropped his attention to his lap, and smoothed away wrinkles in the blanket that were not there. He had already worried them away. “No… not about that.”

Crowley remained silent, though an eyebrow cocked inquisitively.

Aziraphale’s hands held to each other, thumbs stroking against knuckles worryingly. “Anthony… about what I said.”

_Oh, right. Of course he’s fretting over what I had specifically told him not to fret over. _His voice was composed into a carefully neutral tone, though he couldn’t hide the slight admonishment that tainted his words. “Angel… I _told_ you not to worry about it.”

“Don’t you know me by now?” Aziraphale finally returned his attention to Anthony. “You’re not one of them. You don’t ever have to return.”

His hand fell away from Aziraphale, and he laced his fingers together over bared abdomen. Despite his relaxed position, he had unintentionally closed himself off. He weighed how much was really necessary that he divulge. How much emotional trauma did he have to suffer through to show Aziraphale a glimpse of himself? “There will come a time, angel, when neither you, nor I, can prevent the inevitable. And you will be in Heaven, and I will be in Hell. Even if we don’t understand Their plan, everything has an end. No matter what life we make for ourselves here, it can’t last. It _won’t _last.”

“We’re immortal beings, Anthony. As long as we keep this going, who is to say what can and cannot be?” It was perhaps a misguided sense of blind trust – that everything would work out for the best because _it had to_. It couldn’t end in darkness and misery.

Once more, he found himself envious of the angel’s conviction that things would sort themselves out. But it wasn’t the reality he had been shown. He knew how much wickedness there was. “It’s… a beautiful dream, Aziraphale…” For a moment, he closed his eyes, and tried to imagine an outcome that wouldn’t end with him being returned to Hell, and denied not only God, but also his angel. He couldn’t find it. His voice was just as empty as the abyss; a recitation of something that he had mulled over an infinite number of times. “…but so was Heaven for me. And then the next thing I know, I was plummeting towards Hell. I could feel Their love being torn from me and the only thing to catch me was a pool of molten sulfur. The physical pain was never-ending, but it was something that I could have dealt with if They hadn’t left me. And once I had finally pulled myself from that noxious pit of pain, everything was just… _emptiness_. I had Fallen, and no one could explain to me _why_. While everyone was ready to set up shop and start planning The Great War, all I could do was remember what I had, and what I had lost… and I knew that none of those sentiments meant anything to anybody. They were all too happy to be rid of Them. And all I wanted was Their forgiveness.“

Aziraphale had grown still as Anthony spoke. His heart was heavy in his chest as he listened to his strong and caring and protective demon put words to what he had endured. “Anthony. I know that there is so much goodness in you. I can’t imagine what you could have possibly done to make her cast you out.”

“I questioned Them. At the time, I couldn’t understand what I had done wrong. And perhaps that is the reason in and of itself in why I Fell.” His breath was a quiet, shuddering inhale and his fingers curled into fists. Crowley was trying to distance himself from emotions that were a flood held at bay by an ancient, brittle wall.

Aziraphale stretched a hand out, soft fingers curling over a fisted grip. “I would, were it within my power, make it so that it had never happened. But then you and I may never have met… and I have to admit to some selfishness.” His expression was shamed. Aziraphale should have wanted to, without hesitation, prevent Anthony’s Fall if the opportunity arose… but the thought of never having the moment to meet Anthony was a painful ache in his chest.

“If you were the tradeoff for Heaven, I’d have done something far worse to ensure that we met.” His hand turned beneath the light touch, and fingers laced together. Drawing the arm up, his lips swept over the ridge of knuckles, a reassuring kiss.

“I knew it was a horrible place… but I couldn’t have prepared myself for just _how _awful it truly is. During your trial, I was terrified for you. I knew that I never wanted to lose you to them. I don’t pretend to know God’s intentions, but I _have _to believe that some good has come from all the horrible that has happened, and maybe we just can’t see what that is yet.” His voice was thick, and as much as he tried to retain a firm hold on his emotions, he couldn’t. The angel’s tears were silent as they spilled down his cheeks. He hated that Anthony had gone through so much _unnecessary _anguish, and wanted to be able to take even the smallest bit of it away. Alas, this was not something he was capable of healing.

His own voice echoed in his ears, the sound of it calm. Inside, it was a scar that had been sliced fresh open once more. “I should have had more faith. A faith like yours – unquestioning and good. But there were too many questions left unanswered. And now, do I not only have no answers, but I’m stripped of… _everything_ that I was…” He paused, brow furrowing under the weight of his grief. He could remember an empty, black canvas, and then how _satisfied _he had felt as he helped create the mystery and beauty of the cosmos. And then, he had nothing… _was _nothing… well, no, then he had been a demon; a snake to be feared and loathed. “And no matter how much I try to deny and fight what I am, I will never be anything more than this.”

Mindful of the puppy, Aziraphale shifted closer to Anthony. He stretched onto his left side, and rested his cheek to the pillow, allowing the fabric to absorb the spilled tears. Brow touched to Anthony’s temple, and his right arm stretched across his chest to clutch tight to the opposite shoulder. “You are so much more than this lie that you are telling yourself.”

“Am I?” He took hold of the angel’s grounding arm. His question lacked the usual bite of sarcasm. It was genuine. It was difficult to believe Aziraphale’s reassurance.

His chest remained painfully tight. He hadn’t been able to fully comprehend how absolutely awful the Fall had been. It was a pain he couldn’t even begin to fathom, yet something that Anthony dealt with every moment. His grip on shoulder flexed more tightly, holding him that much more securely. Aziraphale couldn’t save him, no matter how much he wanted to, and that stung. “I have faith in you, Anthony. And for all the things that you are, you are a better angel for denying whatever darkness you may have. Regardless of what arises next, I will always be here.”

Mindful of the small dog, he repositioned himself onto his right side; Oscar in a cocoon of warmth between angel and demon. They were nose to nose, now. He was able to see the reflection of love and worry in the angel’s eyes. Left palm rested against Aziraphale’s jaw, and his thumb swept along the moisture that pooled, then spilled over the bridge of nose. “And that’s what you do, isn’t it?” This was mused aloud to himself. The angel’s heart was so pure that he wept for a demon. “The first time I saw you atop the wall, you were this little slice of hope in the bad, and you accepted me and showed me kindness… a-and I just…” He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. It deflated him when he exhaled. “…I just don’t want to be Crowley anymore.”

Aziraphale drew the hand from his own face, holding it with the left, cradled against his chest. His right was used to angle Anthony’s head down, allowing him to press a lingering kiss to forehead. He _desperately _wanted to be able to soothe Anthony’s misery, but couldn’t find a way to do so against inner demons. Another slight change of positioning, and he drew Anthony’s upper body into him, chin resting in soft red hair. It was a protective embrace, his hand stroking down the length of spine, and along the back of shoulders.

Crowley had been able to maintain his façade of indifference. After all, he had been doing it for millennia and had become quite adept at hiding his scars. But when the angel drew him close, and held him with the same sheltering embrace as a white wing shielding against the first rain, he wept. Left arm slid over Aziraphale’s side, and clung fiercely to him. His body trembled, and Crowley gave quiet voice to his anguish, smothered against his loving angel’s chest.

“I love you, Anthony, for everything that you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	15. Luck of the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Marriage had originated as a joining of two opposing forces in 2350 BC in Mesopotamia. Two individuals, who rarely had a say in the matter, exchanged rings – a symbolization of a union that stretched into eternity. If everything goes according to his plans, this was going to be one hell of a day to remember.

The champagne was doing little to calm his nerves. He was settled into the left corner of the soft leather sofa, sprawled, as was his norm. Left leg was moving up and down restlessly, with his right leg folded along the length of cushion. His head was turned to the side, an arm drawn up so that he could brace his knuckles to his mouth. The flute of bubbling liquid was mostly ignored as he held it against his knee. Despite the finery of the shop, he had worn his customary tight leather, boots, and jacket. Reflective lenses hid reptilian, yellow eyes.

The human had assured him that his expectations could be met, and should he fail, well… it was in his best interest that he not fail. He had only a small window of opportunity for execution. Everything was set precisely into motion.

“I appreciate your patience, Mister Crowley. I hope this is to your satisfaction?” The human entered the room with a large velvet tray, which he lowered to the table.

As he rose, his hand was miraculously freed of the glass. He paced close to the human, staring down at the man’s white gloved hands.

“Right. Good.” There was no ceremony to his departure from the shop. He slid into the driver’s seat of the Bentley outside of Harrod’s. The vehicle was maneuvered seamlessly into traffic; easily overtaking other drivers.

“Angel!” The door to the library was snapped open. Crowley had reclaimed his casual expression. He found Aziraphale seated at his desk reading, and the mutt curled at his sock-clad feet. His greeting was a kiss to the cheek. “Get ready, angel. We’re going out.”

Wire-framed, round glasses were lowered and placed beside the first edition copy of The Cantebury Tales. A swivel in his chair turned him to watch Anthony restlessly pace. “Where are you wanting to go?”

Hands shoved into his pockets, and he paused long enough to watch as Aziraphale delicately removed his gloves. “I have tickets to The Globe.”

Brows wrinkled in confusion, and he turned his attention to his calendar. Had he lost track of the days, and it was before the 13th? _No. _It was most definitely 21 October. “Anthony, love, the season is over.”

Crowley rocked back onto his heels and stammered uncomfortably over an explanation. “Eh… through some miracle, they decided on having a final _hurrah_. Suppose they were having an amazing season, or… some such…”

His body was angled towards Aziraphale, an arm draped comfortably along his shoulders. The angel was enraptured by the unfolding of _Much Ado about Nothing_. As if Shakespeare were there and coaching, the angel played the part of the audience quite well. He cheered appropriately, and fell silent during somber moments. Despite how many times he had seen the production, he still sought comfort by holding onto Crowley’s thigh.

_“Good morrow, Prince.”_

_“Good morrow, Claudio.”_

_“We here attend you.”_

_“Are you yet determined today to marry with my brother’s daughter?”_

_“Call her forth, brother. Here’s the friar, ready.”_

Aziraphale was enthralled, his expression reverent. Numerous times throughout the performance, his mouth had moved silently in tandem of the actors’ words, and that point was no exception.

His left hand hovered against his hip. He fidgeted with the object that he had withdrawn from his pocket. His heart galloped in his chest, though he showed no outward sign of his increasing disquiet and unrest. He had seen the play at its conception, and multiple times throughout his history. With his gaze marveling on the joyful profile of his angel, he listened to the recitation. Crowley knew the precise moment that he anticipated, and it was nearly upon them.

The actors and audience alike erupted into applause with Hero’s unveiling. Aziraphale cast a glance to Anthony, positively over the moon. It was an appreciative, thankful look that he quickly returned to the stage.

Crowley leaned in to Aziraphale, his voice only loud enough to be heard over cheering. “Did you enjoy the play?”

A hand touched to Anthony’s thigh briefly, encouraging silence. “_Shh_! It’s not over, my dear.”

His smile was content. Crowley felt proud that he could bring such joy to his angel. It helped ease the tension that knotted his insides. Everything had fallen precisely into place.

Benedick and Beatrice had finished reading the letters that had been composed of their own volition.

_“A miracle! Here’s our own hands against our hearts.” _

Benedick’s voice lost the character’s arrogance, though his voice still projected throughout the theatre. “Come,” He turned, and then lowered to bended knee. The actor had withdrawn a small box from a pocket. It was opened, and held up in presentation to the Beatrice actress. “Elizabeth, will ye have me?”

It was evident that the woman had not anticipated the proposal. She gave a delighted squeal of surprise. “Oh my God, _yes_!” Elizabeth dropped, and thrust herself into the arms of her now-fiancé. It was a tight, happy embrace as she exclaimed excitedly. “Yes! Yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

Crowley was positively aghast. He sat, stunned for a moment, as everyone around him erupted into another bout of cheer and applause. The small item in his hand was returned with unnecessary force back to his pocket. His arm remained around Aziraphale, who was just as exuberant as all in attendance. “Oh, bugger that. Boo! Unprofessional!” He yelled this out, though he doubted those on stage would be able to hear him over the raucous noise.

“Must you really?” Aziraphale didn’t pause his clapping when he turned his chastising attention to Anthony. His bright smile didn’t diminish. He was overjoyed that he could bear witness to such a wondrous time for the two humans. “This is beautiful!”

A few audience members had craned in their seats to stare in consternation at the demon.

“Get on with it! We came to see a play, not some starry-eyed tosser propose!” Crowley’s emotions had been so high… and then, with one human’s free will, the rug had been pulled from underneath him, and he crashed back to reality. He could still follow through with his plan but it would feel not only overshadowed, but disingenuous. He smothered his utter dejection, and mused aloud to himself. “Another lead balloon…” Crowley had come to be the starry-eyed tosser. _Fuck_.

Crowley _needed _a walk. His left hand was pocketed, hiding the protrusion that would have otherwise been evident. He was quiet as he mulled over the next course of action, thumb absently stroking the side of Aziraphale’s hand. _It couldn’t have been more perfect. _He groaned inwardly. _Fucking humans._ The angel was unhurried, and was chattering excitedly about the play and the proposal.

Not unaccustomed to his love’s retrospection and silence, he filled the quiet. However, there was a tension to the hand that held his own. He drew to a pause alongside the ducks. “Anthony… are you quite alright?”

He stopped with Aziraphale. His expression was quizzical when he turned dark lenses to the angel. “What?”

“You seem distracted.”

His expelled breath was a vibration on lips. “Oh, angel.” He released Aziraphale’s hand to wrap his right arm over his shoulders and drew him in for a kiss to forehead. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

His arms encircled Anthony’s waist, and he rested his cheek to shoulder. He inhaled Anthony’s warm, smoky scent. It was a wonderful ending to what had been a lovely day.

With his angel in his arms, Crowley found that anything was possible. Perhaps the day could be salvaged after all. With his guiding arm, he redirected them to their bench.

Aziraphale settled comfortably, his hands immobile in his lap. “It was ever so lovely, Anthony. The play was _just _perfect.”

Crowley had to look away to hide his sneer. It had been perfect because it was meant to be _their _moment.

“They were very much in love.” His tone was wistful.

“Not as much as I love you.” Crowley turned to him. Aziraphale’s pleased smile thawed the bitterness he had been harboring. _I can fix this_. He claimed left hand, cradling it between both of his own. Crowley cleared his throat. “Aziraphale, I—“

_Bzz_.

His phone vibrated in his right pocket. _Are you fucking kidding me? No. _He tried again. “Angel—“

Another vibration issued from Anthony’s pocket, made all the louder as it moved against coins. “Perhaps you should answer it, love?” His voice was kind with the suggestion.

“_No_.” His tone was unintentionally firm, resolutely determined to ignore whoever dared interrupt. “Angel, listen…”

Another vibration. “Would you prefer I answer it?” This was asked, despite that Aziraphale had no knowledge of the workings of the mobile phone.

His head fell back, and he groaned aloud in frustration. “No.” Crowley pushed up from the bench, both hands shoving into their respective pockets. The right was withdrawn so that he could remove the vibrating device. Thumb slid across the screen, and he held it up to shout down the line. “_Wot? Hell had better have opened up and is swallowing everyone._”

A familiar woman’s voice, undaunted. “Hello to you too, Crowley. Can I talk to Aziraphale?”

He glowered down at the phone, and then, behind his sunglasses, his eyes closed in an attempt to reign in his rising ire. Knuckles rapped with frustration against his forehead. At last, he held it out.

“I—“ Aziraphale fumbled with the device, fingers sliding over the number pad that had lit up and received answering beeps. He brought it to his mouth awkwardly, and shouted down at it, as he had seen Anthony do countless times. “Ah, ahem… hello?!” The screen had gone dark, and he looked helplessly up at Anthony.

“Oh, for Sata – Heav – _Jesus Christ_, here.” He took possession of the iPhone for a moment, and pressed the speaker option. “Talk, angel.” He held it out in his direction. Aziraphale didn’t reach to take it, and he wouldn’t have let him. He was endearingly clueless.

“Ahem… hello?!” His brow furrowed in a frown as he shouted down at the device once more.

“Angel, you don’t have to yell…”

“Aziraphale! Hey, it’s Anathema.” Her voice was pleasant, despite the angel’s awkward greeting.

“Oh, Anathema! My dear, how are you?” His voice resumed an appropriate conversational tone.

“I’m so sorry to call on such short notice, but I forgot that my mom was flying in today. Newt and I need to head to the airport to pick her up. Do you guys mind watching Elfie for us for a few hours?”

The moment had dissolved with the first vibration of his phone. It didn’t mean that it couldn’t be salvaged later. That wouldn’t be possible if they had a baby. “No! Absolutely not. We’re supernatural beings, not nannies. Er, well… not typically. That was only for a short period…” He interjected before Aziraphale could speak.

He curled his fingers around the wrist that held the phone up for him, his expression telling Anthony without words to _settle down_. “Anathema, it would be no trouble at all. We will be there shortly.”

“Great! Thanks so much.”

He could feel the heat of Anthony’s glare. “Ta.”

Anathema and Newton had left only a few moments before. The frustration that had begun to ebb during their drive to Tadfield had returned. Crowley was draped across the length of the sofa, his elbow resting on pressed to the back of furniture, palm supporting his chin. He glared down at the child that was buckled in a green bouncy seat.

Aziraphale knew that Anthony was irritated. It was palpable. In an attempt to help pacify his agitated love, he decided to prepare soothing tea. “I’m going to go make some tea. I’ll return in a jiffy.”

The glass of scotch he was nursing was midway to his lips. “Oh no, you don’t. No. Don’t leave me with it, angel.” This was called to Aziraphale’s retreating back. With his glasses still in place, he sneered down at the little human. “Right… so…” With tumbler in hand, he pointed his index finger at her. “You’re gonna be a good… _thing_. No crying or whingeing, and _most _importantly… none of that minging baby shite.”

His answer was a whimpering from the human, and a kick of little legs. “No… stop it.” Crowley gestured disapprovingly at the child. Her little face was turning red as it scrunched. “Oh, no… _angel! It’s making noise! What do I do?!_”

Aziraphale’s answering call over the sound of the clink of china was patient. “I would suggest you hold her, my love.”

Crowley pulled himself up, so that he could pace around the child for a moment, uncertain. Warlock had been more self-sustained when angel and demon had stepped into his life. He groaned aloud then finished his glass of scotch. It disappeared. “Alright.” He drew to a halt in front of the child, and rubbed his hands together. “Right.” Crowley scooped her up at last, and held her in front of him. “I’m holding you. Quiet, now.” _What do the humans do? Shit_. He was a snake, his every movement confident and fluid. Yet when he held the small human, he felt awkward.

“Alright. Still not happy? ‘Course not. Bloody little human.” As he drew the child to his chest, with head near the crook of shoulder, he sat. One hand supported bottom, the other resting over her small back. He searched his memory for the comforting touches that humans had provided to their offspring throughout his history. “Right… I can do this.” His voice was quiet as he slowly reclined into the corner of the sofa. The hand to small back began a hesitant pat.

The baby did not immediately end her whimpering, but as Crowley settled in more comfortably, she turned her face to him. A delighted garble of sounds, and a little first curled around the delicate temple piece of his sunglasses. “Wot are you doing?” His head tipped, allowing the child to pull off the glasses. She brought them to her mouth. His lip curled. “Ech, no. Come on.” With glasses still in mouth, she brought a hand up to explore over the movement of the demon’s lips as he spoke.

His growl vibrated in his chest. She was undeterred, and even giggled. Little fingers rubbed against scruffy cheek. Glasses clattered to the floor as she resumed her garbling. It wasn’t terrible, though he would rather drink holy water over admitting that he found the little human charming. “You know, little human. Just over a year ago, I killed a demon.” His head rolled back, a harsh sigh exhaled. “Now here I am, domesticated, living with my angel. We have a dog, yanno? And your mum is treating us like nannies. It’s ridiculous.” Her head relaxed against his chest. His eyes closed. It had been a long day. “If Hell knew about this, they’d be outside our door in no time. Hard to be fearsome like this.” Her breathing had slowed. Crowley’s had, as well. He had been on an emotional rollercoaster today; to the very top of the highest mountain with excitement, then down to the deepest depths of the ocean. It wouldn’t hurt to rest his eyes while Aziraphale was making the tea. Perfectly acceptable.

His steps weren’t hurried; he was certain he was going to be on the end of Anthony’s frustration at being left with the babe. He was in no rush to walk into that quarrel. Aziraphale drew to an unexpected halt. _Oh, sweet Heaven. _He softened considerably. For several long moments he stood there, captivated. Anthony’s features were relaxed, and he and the baby both looked _so peaceful._ This was the very reason Aziraphale was in love with him. The Anthony he presented to the world was endearing, and charming, and cheeky, which hid the scars of his emotional trauma. But beneath it all, he was infinitely compassionate, and kind. Aziraphale sighed, a wistful sound that spoke of how much affection he felt for Anthony.

“_I’m not asleep…_ and I can feel you staring at me.” His voice was quiet. He didn’t want to disturb the little human.

“Oh… my apologies. You both just look so… _peaceful_.” Aziraphale crossed to the coffee table, and carefully set the tray down.

“This isn’t at the top of my list of things to do today, but at least she’s settled…”

His expression softened further. “Well, you seem quite remarkable at it. A natural, one could say.”

Crowley cracked an eye open, though he didn’t have it in him to glare at the angel. “You’re treading on thin ice, angel.”

Aziraphale sat next to him, close, so that he could rest his head on Anthony’s shoulder. The tea was forgotten. “I do believe that it’s a risk I’m willing to take, my love.” Aziraphale practically shone with divine light with how consumed he was with love for Anthony.

It had been abundantly clear while they watched the child that the day had gone off course. So Crowley had begun to formulate a new course of action. It was almost _too _simple. On the seventh day, Crowley had suggested they dine at the Ritz.

Left arm was cocked over the back of the chair, flute glass dangling carelessly from long fingers. Right hand rested on tabletop, fingertips drumming quietly. _You can do this. _The Globe had been bad luck, but they had been to the Ritz numerous times. It was a safe bet. His body was angled slightly towards Aziraphale, left leg outstretched under the table. His attention shifted from his own empty plate, up to the employee’s area nervously. He was a wreck of nerves, though his gaze darted to Aziraphale when he breathed a quiet, satisfied moan. An arch of right eyebrow, momentarily sidetracked.

Cloth serviette was touched delicately to lips, then returned primly to his lap. “This has been a positively lovely week.” A delicate bite was taken of the remainder of the Isle of Mull Scallop. The fork was placed along the edge of his plate, and left hand closed over Anthony’s restless one. “I was looking through the books the other day, and came across Darwin’s _On the Order of Species_.” His smile was kind. “The man truly had no idea.” Quiet thanks were given to the waiter when he cleared away his plate, attention returning immediately to Anthony.

Crowley was trying to relax, but he had already been shown that no matter how much control he had on a situation, it was still just beyond his reach. _It has to be perfect. He deserves nothing less. _In an attempt to maintain an exterior of calm, his glass was brought up. The warmth of his angel’s hand was soothing. How could such a simple touch inspire such love in him? “I met with him briefly. Nice bloke, bit of a nutter, though.” His wrist rotated under Aziraphale’s hold. Palm to palm, he drew his hand to his mouth, and brushed a kiss along knuckles. The waiter returned with another course.

The last plate had been cleared away. _Fuck, okay. I can do this_. His champagne was downed, and the empty flute returned to the table. He was staring intently at the employee area. Prior to being seated, Crowley had held the Maître D’ back a few paces, just out of earshot. He had handed over the small box and several folded notes.

Frantic yelling, glass shattering, pots clanking disharmoniously.

His head jerked up with the sound of shouting from the kitchen. A hush fell amongst the diners for a brief moment, then resumed with nervous and curious chattering that fill the dining hall. Alarms screeched obscenely loud. The few staff members on the floor began ushering out guests. _Fucking bollocks. _His chair crashed to the floor behind him as he stood. Aziraphale, who had risen with him, took a step towards the kitchen. Crowley turned the angel to face him, hands gripping into the arm of his coat. “You help get the humans out, angel. I’ll go in.”

The unexpected rise in voices drew his attention. He glanced in confusion at Anthony, then back to the door. The screaming of the alarms was fuel to the discord around them. Without thinking, he moved to help. Anthony drew him back around, his hand gesturing towards the entrance to the dining hall. Aziraphale frowned, lips parting to argue. A child’s terrified crying. Aziraphale turned to the source of fear. He hurried over to two women and a child. The younger woman was struggling to hold the rightfully upset boy, while also aiding the elderly matron. “Hello, my dears. Allow me to assist.” His voice was calm and reassuring as with great care, he curled the elderly woman’s arm through his own, and covered her hand with his free one. 

Crowley turned back to the kitchen. _I have to get the ring_. The fire sprinklers overhead erupted, and water rained down on him. The doors were pushed open to the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the frenzied humans. They were spraying fire extinguishers on an inferno that had begun creeping up a wall. The water that was falling was helping to tame what had gotten out of control. “You!” A hand reached out, and Crowley grabbed his waiter by the jacket. Wide eyes turned to him, and he jerked the human closer. “Where’s my ring?”

“Wh-what?!” He was holding one of the red, hosed canisters.

His voice rose to be heard over the sirens, alarms, and the humans’ voices. “My fucking ring! Where is it?!” In his rising concern and frustration, he cornered the waiter between himself and a counter, still holding tight to his coat.

“H-here!” He fumbled with the fire extinguisher, and shoved a hand into his pocket. He withdrew the small box and held it out with a trembling hand.

Crowley snatched the box from the human’s palm, and shoved into his left pocket. He turned to the rest of the kitchen, a cursory glance to ensure that no one had been seriously harmed. “Right. Bloody fucking Hell.” He slammed his hands into the separating door to the kitchen. “I just want to propose!” Even if by some demonic miracle they had been able to reclaim normalcy, the moment was lost. Again.

He lifted his gaze from the ground, and stared with wide eyes. Along with being positively soaked still, Anthony looked **beyond** irritated.

“Get in, angel.” A curt, gruff greeting.

Aziraphale settled into the passenger seat, then cast a worried glance over at Anthony. “Are you…” His hands folded in his lap, and he studied the clench of jaw. “Do you want me to…” A gesture was made with his hand towards his waterlogged attire.

The grip he had on the steering wheel was white knuckled. “Not now, angel.” He was trying to collect his thoughts and regroup. It was as if the Almighty were personally blockading every attempt he made to propose.

_This was not the case_.

His boots squelched over the rug and as he collapsed into the corner of their sofa, his left hand materializing a glass of scotch. Before he had even slouched down on the old, worn sofa, he had finished it off and it refilled. Crowley didn’t have it in him to hide his frustration. His elbow rested to the arm of the sofa, and fingers supported his head near temple. _It was the Ritz. We’ve been there plenty of times. _

Aziraphale followed Anthony into their cottage. While he got settled, still wet, the angel shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the coat rack. Oscar had excitedly run out of the botanical room when he heard the front door open. As if sensing that Anthony was in a sour mood, he had made sure to stay out from under his feet, and sat down at Aziraphale’s feet, tongue lolling out of his mouth excitedly as he stared up. His waistcoat and bowtie were hung, and in their stead, he pulled on a soft, cream knitted sweater. Turning to the puppy, he knelt. “Oh, Oscar. My sweet boy.” As he stroked through the Corgi’s soft fur, blue eyes flicked over to Anthony. He was aware that he could be dense, but it had been obvious enough, even to him. Anthony could be a grump, but there had been an underlying frustration to the human’s offer of marriage at The Globe that was out of place under normal circumstances.

“Anthony?” His voice was hesitant as he rose, and crossed to the sofa. Anthony didn’t immediately look at him.

He was chastising himself internally. _You can’t even properly propose. How are you going to be by his side until… _Crowley groaned aloud, then finished his glass once more. He was racing towards intoxication. Aziraphale swept damp hair back from Crowley’s brow. It drew him from the darkness of his thoughts. His head tipped back, and guilt tightened Crowley’s insides when he met patient blue eyes. A sigh, and his tone lost the scathing edge of frustration. “Yes, angel?”

“Are you quite alright, my love?” Aziraphale drew his chair closer so that he could sit across from Anthony.

His sigh was a harsh exhale, and he tugged off smudged sunglasses which were tossed carelessly to cushion beside him. Another drink of scotch, then he spoke. “I’m fine, angel. It’s just… been a very long day.”

A small, encouraging flutter of fingers. “Try one more time?”

Bewildered, he stared at Aziraphale. “_You knew_?” It was a quiet question, vocalized to himself. _Of course he knew_. The tumbler vanished from his hold, and Crowley slid to bended knee. “I’ve given a lot of thought… about what you asked in Rome, and then… _boyfriends_…” His hand delved into his left pocket, and he withdrew the black box. The lid was lifted, and he presented the ring. “Be my husband.”

Despite that he had an idea of what his love had been ruminating on since The Globe, he felt a flood of excitement unfurl inside of him. His gaze dropped briefly to the ring, and as elated as he was to have a physical, _human _manifestation of their love, serpent eyes reclaimed his attention. “Oh. _Oh, _Anthony. Yes, of course.” His right hand touched to his heart, as if he could still the rapid beat of it and Aziraphale shifted from the chair down to his knees. As his arms curled around Anthony’s neck, he giggled delightedly. “You did it.”

He hugged Aziraphale around the middle, and buried his face in blonde curls. Oscar gave a single, excited bark, and plopped down next to both angel and demon. “Oh, thank Them.” Relief flooded him. “Oh!” Crowley leaned back enough so that he could remove the ring from its box, and slid it up left ring finger. “Your ring, angel.”

An excited tittering as he sat back, swallowing back the joyous tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. Anthony slid the ring up left finger, the golden band a divinely perfect fit. “Oh… oh, _Anthony. _It’s _perfection.”_ Four small diamonds flanked a larger diamond on either side, all of which were framed by delicate angel wings. Aziraphale extended his arm out, marveling at the loving craftsmanship. “_Husbands._ Oh, I am just… just…” Both hands curled into the lapels of the black coat. “I fully expect you to take me to our bed.” And then, before their mouths reunited, “_now._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	16. Wedding Traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

A new slate grey door had appeared in their isolated hallway. Behind it, was a bathroom styled as a nod to elaborate Roman bath houses. The walls were large, pale stones, the trough sink the same marble coloring as the kitchen. The bath was enormous, and framed with large archways. Stones towards the bottom of the bath made the water appear turquoise. Steps led down into water that was kept heated reminiscent of a hot spring.

Aziraphale was leaned back against a wall, Anthony sunk low between his legs so that his head rested on his belly. Music was quiet in the background, more modern than he typically listened to, but the quiet crooning voice, though feminine, reminded him of Anthony.

_ Oh shall I stay_

_ Would it be a sin?_

_ Oh if I can’t help_

_ Falling in love with you._

He lowered a hand into the water, and cupped palm poured it into red hair. Fingers were buried in the fiery strands, nails scratching over scalp. Anthony hummed an appreciative moan. “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something… something…” He paused, trying to recall the last of the rhyme.

“Something blue.” His voice was quiet, his body utterly relaxed. Crowley didn’t want to move and run the risk of Aziraphale stopping.

“That’s right. Blue.” Another cupped palm of water was poured over his hair. “Hm… what can I wear that’s old?” Mused quietly.

“Well… you’re going to be the oldest groom in existence.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Anthony.” With great affection, he combed Anthony’s hair back from his brow.

A quiet groan of exasperation. “What does it matter, angel? We’re basically already married. We don’t need to make a whole big thing of it.”

“How long have you known me, precisely?” Aziraphale gave a teasing and light tug to damp hair.

“Eh, I concede your point. But, please. Can we not make a huge thing of this? We don’t even really know anyone. Be a waste, really. Kids in Africa starving, and all.”

Aziraphale scooped some of the warmed water into Anthony’s hair once more, before resuming his massage of scalp. “We know plenty, Anthony. Plus, you will look _so_ handsome and dapper in a new tuxedo.”

Crowley groaned again, louder now. “Wot? Please, no. We could just… we could elope, if you insist on a ceremony.” Water splashed as he shifted so that he could look at Aziraphale, upside down. It was a lost cause.

“We should get washed up.” The bottle of shampoo was inverted, and replaced on a ledge. Anthony grumbled unintelligibly, but returned to his former position. A good lather was worked up, though it wasn’t immediately rinsed. “I quite enjoy this.”

Fingers laced together on his stomach, any remnants of tension eased from his body. His eyes were closed, and his breathing grew slow and even. “I’m never bathing alone ever again.”

A small glass materialized in an outstretched hand, and it was dipped into the water. “Anthony… I know it sounds absurd, but I’ve spent six millennia denying what we have, because it was what was expected. I’ve always loved you, and I want to celebrate it. It doesn’t have to be _overly _extravagant. Keep your eyes closed.” The water was poured carefully, free hand sliding through hair. The cup was refilled.

He remained still, eyes closed, as Aziraphale rinsed his hair. _Always_? His constant, invading thoughts plucked at the word, trying to find comprehension. It was the one thing he couldn’t understand. If he had always felt for Crowley, what Crowley felt for him, then why had he pulled away? Why had he disappeared? _Why was I a fraternization_? Aziraphale had made it abundantly clear that he had not reciprocated Crowley’s love. _You go too fast for me, Crowley. _But he would have stepped back, given the angel his space, and locked the feelings away. He hadn’t been given that opportunity. Aziraphale was just… _gone,_ and Crowley had to seek him out after delivering The Antichrist fifty years later. A hand reached up without thought, and he drew the arm down across his chest. One palm laid over Aziraphale’s forearm, while the fingers of the other sought reassurance by stroking fingertips between the ridges of knuckles. “If you loved me, then why did you disappear?”

Confusion drew his brows together, the glass evaporating from his hand so that he could sweep it gently through Anthony’s hair. “Anthony, we’ve discussed the discorporation.”

“No. In 1862.” He hated bringing it up, but he needed closure for one of the more dark, invasive thoughts he had. Crowley had lost Aziraphale too many times, he needed to be able to prevent the possibility from arising again.

“You did the same thing to me.” It was a gentle reminder, one that was made as he continued to stroke Anthony’s hair, a reassurance for both of them.

“I had my reasons.” His voice was low, ashamed. _Aziraphale knelt on the floor, hugging himself, begging that Crowley not push him away. _It had hurt to try to push him away. The arm that laid across his chest was pulled tighter around him, desperately clutching to his angelic lifeline.

“As did I.” His other arm slid around Anthony, enveloping him in an embrace. His head tipped back against the wall, and he paused, attempting to organize his thoughts into some semblance of order. “When you asked me for the holy water, I knew you were in danger because of the Agreement. Anthony, _you_ _knew_ that we were in enough danger that you had to ask for a weapon that would _destroy_ you if you mishandled it. I… I-I just…” And then, helplessly, “I panicked.” His breath shuddered as he drew it in, the memory vivid in his thoughts. His world had shifted beneath him when he read the note. “I knew that if you felt it was necessary to have _insurance_, that you were in danger. And I couldn’t let you get hurt because of me, Anthony.”

Crowley paused, considering. All along, Aziraphale had been protecting him, just as much as he had been protecting Aziraphale. _I’m a dedicated idiot_. He had misinterpreted it all along. _Yet_… that wasn’t everything. Because if that were all, then there would have been no hesitation in 1941. Crowley had done everything just short of saying _three small words. _“If you’d have just _said something _then, I’d have fought Heaven and Hell for you, Aziraphale, for all eternity. Why did it take the Apocalypse for us to come back together?”

Crowley needed the reassurance of his touch as they revisited moments that ached tremendously. He turned in Aziraphale’s arms, his own wrapping around his middle, cheek resting above steady heartbeat.

For a moment, Aziraphale was stunned into silence. What could he possibly say to that? Several long moments passed, and then finally, slowly. “Crowley, at the time it seemed like an impossible choice. I didn’t know your true feelings for me. But I hoped. And that day at the bandstand, I would have gone with you if you had just told me that you loved me.” Right palm rested absently at the nape of his neck as he had explained himself. But now that he had fallen quiet, his fingers resumed their combing through red hair, a task for anxious hands.

“I should have. I wanted to. After the bookshop, I finally knew what Hell was.” His voice was quiet.

“I promise we’ll never be parted again.” Aziraphale held Anthony to him, a reassuring kiss pressed to the top of his head.

“I love you, angel.”

Music filled the silence.

_Linger on your pale blue eyes._

The angel had coerced his fiancé into tuxedo shopping. They had found a private tailor: Benedict Fitzgerald. Aziraphale sat beside Anthony, his hands folded primly in his lap, beaming with excitement. The young man across from them was pleasantly attentive as he showed them a catalog of dress-ware. “Oh! That is stunning.” He paused for a moment, fingertips stroking over a glossy page of a high collared white shirt. Blue eyes were hopeful when they lifted to black lenses.

As he did, Crowley was stretched in the chair, claiming as much space as his long, lean body was able, arms folded across his chest. He was really trying to participate. His angel was unbelievably enthused, and he hated to bring his spirits down. A glance down at the page that Aziraphale indicated, then up to his hopeful face. Crowley hadn’t been very compliant thus far, and had been turning down nearly all suggestions. “Eh, for a prat.” His tone conveyed his displeasure being there.

He glanced sharply at Anthony, a look of exasperation. “_Anthony_.” It was a plea that he take the matter seriously.

Slouched position was shifted guiltily, and he leaned forward to brace an elbow to the desk. “Alright, fine. Let’s get this over with…” They engaged in a dance of what was appropriate attire – Crowley had suggested sequin suits in honor of Liberace, and Aziraphale had countered, just as reproachful, on tartan. Crowley threatened abstinence. After much back and forth, an agreement was finally reached.

Benedict, a young man with bleached blond hair and a sharp suit, was professional and patient during the exchange. His gaze lingered on Anthony, who had made it abundantly clear that he considered this a waste of his time. As the pair rose, a hand gestured to his assistant, Stephen, who was dressing a mannequin. “If you want to take a look around, Mr. Fell, while we get started in the back, my assistant will be around to aid you.” His attention shifted between the two. They couldn’t have appeared more different – the ginger personified the essence of a rock star, the blonde bookish and refined. Clearly, it was a relationship based on money. His gaze appreciatively studied the sharp angles of jawline, the unsmiling mouth, the flash of skin above black shirt. Benedict swept an arm out in indication of the back area. He had to clear his throat as he watched, mesmerized, the way leather clad hips swayed, the placement of one booted foot before the other, the roll of shoulders and bob of head. _Oh, the things I’d let him do to me. _He shivered with lust.

Aziraphale lit up with the advice, his smile radiant. “Oh! That is a wondrous suggestion. Thank you.”

He had been left alone while Aziraphale perused _fabric swatches_. Crowley stood in front of the tailor’s mirror, staring down his own reflection through dark lenses. The human had added the last pin and was circling him. His shoulders rolled under the jacket, and he tipped his head to loosen the muscles in his neck. He had been quite glad when fashion had shifted from suffocating collars.

“So what’s the suit for?” Benedict’s tone was mildly inquisitive as he readjusted the placement of a pin, then stood just to the side of Anthony, assessing the fit of coat and trousers on lean frame. He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that his gaze lingered longer than necessary.

A sigh of exasperation. “I don’t even know.” Aziraphale had insisted that they look their very best for the wedding, which included a fitting. He had pointed out that he could miracle them suits. His angel had looked scandalized at the thought.

“I think this should about do it.” Benedict withdrew a few steps, a hand to chin and head tilted as he looked Anthony over. Another circle was made around him, a last sweeping check of his handiwork.

A harshly exhaled breath. “Great. Now get me out of this.”

Benedict stood in front of him, too close, as he undid the coat’s buttons. “I get plenty of distinguished gentlemen coming through here. But none like you.” His voice was low as his gaze lifted to trail over the shape of mouth. Hands touched to shoulders under the fabric, guiding it down arms with the slide of his palms tracing down biceps and forearms. He lingered, invitingly close, oblivious to the way the angled jaw clenched and eyes narrowed behind impossibly dark glasses. “I normally make it a rule not to take any of my clients home. But for you, I’d make an exception.” And then, even more quietly. “He’d never have to know.” A step was taken back, the jacket folded precisely over an arm. Benedict’s gaze was hungry.

Crowley could be at home spending the remainder of the day in the bath with his angel, or watching a movie while Aziraphale read. Instead, he had spent the better part of their day here. Now, to add insult to injury, the human was attempting to seduce him. Crowley couldn’t bite the kneejerk reaction. He laughed, a loud cackle of sound that had his head tipping back. “Oh, thanks. I needed that. Fuckin’ hilarious, mate.” The human bristled under the demon’s laughter. “Does that ever work? Doesn’t matter, I don’t care.” Now, unabashedly loud, while leveling the human with a glare. “Angel!”

He had been in the process of comparing two shades of light blue – they were very similar, nearly identical. _Angel._ With color samples in hand, Aziraphale turned to the back, then paused in the threshold, marveling up at Anthony on the elevated platform for the briefest of moments. His heart stuttered in his chest, and he exhaled a quiet sigh. “_Oh…”_ Even though it was a work in progress, Anthony looked so handsome. “Oh!” His gaze was quickly averted. “I shouldn’t see you in your wedding suit, love.” A blush diffused his cheeks, his smile bright as he returned his attention to the color samples. “Which one?”

Glasses were raised briefly, narrowed eyes assessing the cloth that Aziraphale held up questioningly. “C’mere. Let me see.” It was absurd. They were identical. When Aziraphale stood before him, he bent closer, as if to intently study the duplicate samples. Crowley softened as his gaze shifted to lips that hadn’t been kissed lately. “You know, I think I prefer…” The side of his knuckles touched just under Aziraphale’s chin, and his head bowed. His mouth was soft as he covered angelic lips that had moaned his name, as if in prayer, just last night. “…_you_.”

For a moment, he forgot himself. Blue eyes closed, his expression peaceful as lips parted beneath Anthony’s. But when he withdrew, his blush deepened, and he immediately averted his gaze, though he did peek up at him out of the corner of his eye. He felt positively giddy under Anthony’s blatant affection. “_Well._”

Crowley stepped from the platform, and turned to the human. His shroud of professionalism had mostly returned, though there was an iciness to his hidden stare. “Right. My fiancé,” An arm slung loosely over Aziraphale’s shoulders, “will help me out of this, and then we can work on getting him all set. Together.”

Benedict could only wordlessly nod.

“And that is why Hamlet is such a success to date.” Aziraphale paused alongside a display of peonies. Fingertips were feather light as he touched a pale blush bloom.

“Seriously? You flirted Hamlet into being one of Shakespeare’s most popular pieces?” Anathema was incredulous. One of the delicate flowers was plucked from a vase, and held aloft before Aziraphale. Pale blonde hair and the light flower complimented one another. It was returned with the rest of the bunch.

Anthony had been quite adamant that if he was forced to participate in any additional shopping, he was going to cause a scene. Newton had to coerce Anathema into leaving the cottage and Elfie. “Oh, my dear, nothing so tawdry.” He continued on, blue eyes sweeping over the rainbow of colors. The angel stopped at the roses – the vermilion of its petals reminding him of his soon-to-be husband.

Fingers teased absently along the bud of a rose, her thoughts racing away from her. “Were you… did you ever meet Agnes?” Her features were carefully composed into indifference.

“Ah…” Aziraphale was gentle when he claimed her hand, cradling it between both of his own. “I’m afraid I didn’t have that honor, my dear.”

Brown eyes rose to compassionate blue, and like a neon sign above his head, it was a screaming reminder that _he’s an angel, how do the other humans not feel that? _How was she not drowning in that otherworldly benevolence that was shining down on her? _Is that…_ The bright shop lights seemed to dim, and Anathema was certain she could see a shadow of ethereal wings that fluttered behind Aziraphale, and an illumination that shone down on blonde curls. A shake of her head, and she withdrew her hand slowly. She had to let it go, because if she dwelled too long on what these two ageless beings had influenced, her head might explode. “Are you guys going to do separate bachelor parties?”

He resumed his contemplative shopping. “What precisely is done at a bachelor’s party?”

“Well I’m not sure how it’s done over here… but the ones in America can get pretty crazy. You should ask Crowley to explain what one is. But I definitely think you should let Tracy and I take you out the night before the big day.”

The angel was a sucker for a party. “Oh, that sounds like an absolute delight.”

They were seated at a private table at both champagne and chilled water accessible. They had already had rotation of the more traditional fruit cake, chocolate, vanilla, and carrot cake. They were waiting for chocolate with raspberry filling. Aziraphale’s glass of champagne was lifted, chasing away the hint of the previous cake. After a week of shopping with Anathema, he had exhausted most tales of his and Anthony’s intrepid romance.

“I have to admit, I’m curious. Why do you feel the need to get married?”

One hand rested in his lap, the other returning his champagne to the table top after a sip. “Well… we had to hide our…” An impatient wave of a hand, “_friendship_… for six thousand years. Our kind is not necessarily known for having… romantic inclinations, and I’m tired of hiding my love for him. You humans have such a beautiful tradition. No matter what comes… we will always have this memory.”

Anathema regarded the immortal being thoughtfully. “Can angels get divorced?”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes grew wide. “Why ever would they need to divorce?”

She sat back when the baker returned, and placed the small tasting of cake before each of them. “Well, eternity… that’s a really long time to spend with someone.”

“Thank you, my dear.” This was said to the baker. He regarded the lovely craftsmanship of the cake, before the smallest of tastes was given of the icing. “It’s been six thousand years, respectively.”

“You guys weren’t together the whole time.” Another sip of her water.

“Well, no, of course not. We had to maintain the pretense that we were staying mostly away from one another, for appearances, you see. But we have so much history together, that I couldn’t imagine an eternity without him.” Another taste of the cake.

“Aziraphale, have you two even had a…” Anathema took a small taste of her cake. It was marvelous. “…a _real _disagreement?”

“Oh, my… yes, we’ve had our share.” His fork tinkled against delicate chinaware, and he raised the flute for a sip of champagne. His mouth had gone suddenly dry, and blue eyes dropped to study the white tablecloth.

_“It’s over.” It had rendered Anthony speechless. Well, nearly speechless. “Have a nice doomsday.”_

His champagne was finished off, and returned to the table. When he glanced up at Anathema, he offered an uneasy smile. “We were on opposite sides for so, _so _long. And with Heaven and Hell not allowing us to be a couple…” Aziraphale hesitated. _That’s not right… _“No, _friends_, for so long, it put a-a… _strain_… on our relationship from time to time.” His sigh was a relieved exhale. _We’re on our own side._ “But since we’ve finally got all that sorted out, it’s been rather lovely.”

“For all of his eccentricities, it’s not hard at all to see how much love he has for you.” Anathema lowered her water, and took another bite of the cake.

Aziraphale gave a subtle, happy wiggle, delighted that she had noticed. He resumed the tasting.

The angel’s love for the demon was almost tangible. It was beautiful to observe. Another question rose to the forefront of her thoughts. “May I ask… why Anthony?”

A dainty sip was taken of his water, and then blue eyes lifted to Anathema’s curious expression. “It’s his name, my dear.”

She considered this for a moment, with an acknowledgement of, “Oh, I see.” She didn’t really see, though.

The woman who sidled up to their table was one of the co-owners of the establishment. Her hair was a shocking and delightful shade of blue that Aziraphale found absolutely delightful. She pulled out a chair and settled across from them. “Were you able to come to a decision?”

His smile was bright and genuine. “Everything was absolutely scrumptious. But there was just… something missing. Is there anything else you would recommend?”

“Wel—“ Isla, that was the woman’s name. She was cut off by a little girl with midnight black curls that thrust herself into Isla’s arms with an exclamation of “_Mum!_”

Anathema and Aziraphale were almost identical in their reactions. An exhaled breath of, “_oh._”

Isla embraced the girl for a moment, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Run along to mummy, Evangeline.”

Aziraphale watched her go, his smile peaceful when he redirected his attention to Isla. “Evangeline?”

“Oh… she’s the light of mine and my wife’s world, and as we were naming the bakery, we could think of nothing more fitting.” She waved a hand, as if to clear the air. “Anyway, we have another cake, but it’s not the most popular or conventional.”

Intrigued, “Please, go on.”

“It’s our specialty crepe cake.”

The angel lit up with the brightness of Heaven radiating out of him. He looked delightedly to Anathema, who seemed skeptical. “That sounds absolutely divine.”

Aziraphale stood attentively outside the door to the changing cubicle. He had found another lovely dress for Anathema to try on.

Chiffon fabric whispered down her body, and pooled around her feet. As she adjusted the muted sage garment, she called through the door. “What do you mean that angels don’t have babies? You don’t reproduce?”

A slight furrowing of his brows. “Well, _technically, _our Heavenly forms don’t have the necessary…” He paused, searching for a delicate way to phrase his explanation.

The door open. “Equipment?” Anathema presented her back to him, dark curls held atop her head.

“I suppose you could put it that way.” The zipper was drawn up.

She turned to face him. “Well how does it work with humans?”

“_Ah._” Aziraphale took a step back, scrutizing the dress. It was quite lovely, sleeveless, though chiffon draped down her slender arms. “You look beautiful, my dear.” And then, “Well… if an angel or a demon were to say… _make an effort, _things can be accomplished…”

Holding up the skirt of the dress, she swept to the mirror. “And have you and Crowley ever made such an effort?” She met his gaze through the reflective glass.

“I hardly think that’s an appropriate conversation.” He uncomfortably fidgeted with the lavender dress he held.

She turned to face him, and took the garment from him so that she could try it on. “Please, Aziraphale. I see the way you look at him. And I see the way he looks at you.”

His cheeks turned scarlet, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Ah, well…” Humans could be almost too perceptive. “Yes, alright, of course we have.”

The door was closed after he had pulled down the zipper. “Was it worth _the effort?_”

Fondly, “It most definitely _is._”

The front door thudded back against the wall, and the bags were tossed on their worn sofa. Anthony was in his botanical room, his body turned toward Aziraphale – likely he had been startled by his loud entrance. “Anthony, are you quite alright?” Blue eyes swept around them, looking for the danger. He had heard profane, angry shouting.

Oscar jumped down from where he was curled in Aziraphale’s chair, following in the angel’s wake. He sat down beside Oxfords.

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, yellow eyes averted. “Ah, yeah. ‘Course, ‘course I am…” The plants were still trembling around him, and he cut the nearest one a pleading look to _act naturally_. They started shaking even harder, perhaps out of spite.

Though he was silent, Aziraphale’s expression spoke volumes of _what the hell did you do? _

He was pacing nervously now, though he paused at the farther end of the room. Leaves were spritzed with water as he searched for an explanation that wouldn’t disappoint Aziraphale or make him look like a complete knob. “W-well since you’ve been around, they’ve gotten lazy. And I-I-I read somewhere, book maybe, that if you talk to the plants, it’ll encourage them to grow. A-and well, I came up with m’own system, and it sssseems to be working…” The plant mister was returned to the edge of a plantar. It fell. He picked it up, and placed it down a little more firmly than necessary.

“Were you _shouting_ at the poor dears?” A hand fluttered to his chest, absolutely scandalized at the prospect.

Fingers were shoved into his pockets, and he rocked back on his heels. He was stammering again. “N-no, ‘course not. It’s just this lot, you gott’a stay on them, or they’ll be riddled with spots and wilts.”

Aziraphale crossed over to him, and curled his arm through one of Anthony’s. “Come dear, you don’t have to be such a bully.” The look he cast the plants was apologetic as he guided Anthony towards their sofa. A warm cup of tea was needed.

Crowley allowed the angel to guide him away, but not without a glance over his shoulder and a threatening growl, “I’ll be back.”

Thunder shook the window behind their bed, and rain battered against the glass. Aziraphale was stretched on his back, his head and shoulders supported by plump pillows. Anthony laid on his right side, wrapped into the angel’s left. His cheek rested against chest, brow pressed to the underside of Aziraphale’s chin. Oscar was a small ball that rested against Anthony’s forearm, which was stretched over Aziraphale’s belly. “Anathema mentioned a bachelor party… are you familiar with the term?”

With his elbow bent slightly, he was able to trail his fingers slowly along Aziraphale’s bicep. “Ah, yeah, yeah. A stag party.” His voice was quiet, as if he could hardly muster the energy to speak aloud. The touch in his tousled hair was making it difficult for him to keep his eyes open, and focus on their conversation. Yet, despite how utterly relaxed he was, Crowley’s position was one that if harm presented itself in that moment, they would have to go through an angry demon to get to his angel. “Typically, the grooms go to…” He paused for a moment, quietly searching for delicate phrasing that wouldn’t scandalize, “discreet gentlemen’s clubs… the night before The Big Day to mourn the loss of bachelorhood.”

The slow, reassuring stroke of nails along Anthony’s scalp stilled. For a moment, his expression brightened, his tone wistful. “I miss the gavotte.”

“Ah, what?” Thunder echoed his disbelief. Crowley sat up enough so that he could gape at Aziraphale. “Really, angel? It’s been over a century, and I don’t even think the millennials know what the gavotte is_._”

Aziraphale smiled up at the frown, then lifted his chin so he could kiss it away. He reclined back into the pillows. “Though I don’t mourn the demise of our days apart, I would love to go out to a gentleman’s club.”

“Oh, angel…” He returned his cheek to Aziraphale’s chest, nuzzling in close. “You wouldn’t like the current ones… for a lot of reasons.”

“Disco music.” Fingers resumed their stroking in fiery hair.

If he wasn’t lulled so closely to sleep with his angel’s soothing touch, he might have made a counterpoint. Instead, his body relaxed more thoroughly, and he grunted a quiet sound of contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	17. Just a bit tetchy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

There is a lot to consider when planning a wedding. Wedding arrangements had changed drastically since their inception. Aziraphale was combing through every bridal magazine one could get their hands on. He was well aware that churches were not an option and was attempting to find a happy medium.

The doors to the library were snapped closed behind him. As he sauntered down an aisle of books, he used his free hand to strip out of his outer layers of clothing. He was down to leather and thin black shirt when he drew to a stop bedside. Aziraphale was centered in their large bed, with magazines spread outward from him. Oscar was curled into a ball in his lap. “What is all this, angel? I think you’re overdoing it.”

His smile was guilty when he looked up to Anthony. “There are just a few additional things I need to wrap up. I’m trying to find the perfect venue. Is there anywhere in particular you may have in mind?”

One of the magazines was snatched from the mattress. He theatrically held it aloft, turned away from Aziraphale. Brow furrowed as he devoted all of his attention to studying the image of crystal blue water, white sands, and tiki huts. He scoffed. “Tahiti. _Really_?” Crowley cocked a derisive glance over his shoulder, then flicked the magazine away dismissively.

“_I beg your pardon_. It’s beautiful there and we’ve never been.”

“Fine, whatever you want, angel, but I’m damn well not wearing a suit.” A loud snap materialized a large wooden TV unit to the left side of their bed. It was a massive, tarnished gold, baroque-style behemoth. Crowley knelt before the sleek, modern telly, and began setting up the Xbox. No wiring was connected during the process.

“My love, what are you doing?” He frowned up at Anthony, who had swept several magazines to the floor so that he could perch on the edge of the bed. Oscar uncoiled, and padded little feet over the magazines. Small body stretched out forepaws, before he closed the distance between him and his other supernatural father. The pup settled against hip, and rested his chin atop Anthony’s thigh. He returned his focus to his hands – in each, he was comparing two large, sweeping gardens.

Snake eyes lowered down to big puppy ones. He sneered down the mongrel, but he didn’t have it in him to shoo the beast aside. A grunt was his greeting. Headphones were donned, and he blew a testing breath into the small mouthpiece. Newt had given Crowley his gaming credentials. “You’re busy, and I’ve no desire to partake in _that_.”

“How are your vows coming along?” His tone was conversational, but the cut of blue eyes to him spoke volumes of disapproval.

“Ehh,” Crowley stammered, guilty. “They’re coming along great. Almost done. The best vows that’ve ever… vowed.”

“Oh, how convincing. So you’re not going to work on your vows, and you also have specific, yet unvoiced expectations on the venue for our wedding.” Aziraphale’s patience was waning and his curt tone was indicator of this.

A groan. “Fine, we’ll go to Tahiti. But I’m wearing a bikini.” After keying in Newt’s information, a connection was made through headphones.

“_Anthony. _I just want us to have a memorable day, where in another six thousand years we can look fondly back on it. I know you don’t _care_, obviously,” he swept an arm out to the new distraction, “but I want you to be at least a little pleased.” His voice rose with his increased frustration and worry. “But you know… yes, fine, you’re right…” Aziraphale dropped the magazines he held, and with a dramatic gesture of his hand, he materialized from the center of the bed, to the aisle that led from their domicile. His glasses were removed, and tossed to the mattress with exasperation. “We should just elope.” He clasped his hands in front of him, fingers wringing anxiously.

“Whoa, whoa, angel.” His headphones were tossed aside, Newt’s voice muffled. _Shit._ Oscar’s head lifted, suddenly very wide awake. Crowley could hear the angel’s worry, his distress vocalized. The controller for the gaming console was tossed to the bed, and he crossed to him. Oscar’s nails clicked when he jumped to the floor. He danced around their feet, confused, before padding to his own canine bed. Though he laid down, he watched them, now concerned. “Hey, hey, hey. Aziraphale.” Crowley grabbed him by the biceps, and drew him into his chest. “Shit, angel. I’m so sorry. I’ve been an absolute wanker.”

_He stepped out of the gaming store, hands heavy with bags, and drew up short. Just down the block was a closely clustered group of shouting humans, brandishing signs that said things such as:_

_GOD HATES YOU_

_ALL HOMOS WILL BURN_

_And other truly atrocious things that caught Crowley in his chest. His gaze shifted to the storefront of the building they congregated outside of. _

_Evangeline Bakery, Patisserie, and Restaurant._

_And as his gaze returned to the angry chanting of adults, and even children, he felt another harsh stab. Hastur stood in the middle of the group, leaning over a woman’s shoulder. And as he whispered in her ear, black eyes locked with serpent yellow and Hastur leered._

He had to physically shake his head to purge the image from his thoughts. Crowley placed his own worries to the back for later assessment, and it was a selfish act just as much as it was selfless. He loved taking care of Aziraphale. Crowley pulled him into his chest, a hand cupping to chin to tilt head back.

He sank into Anthony’s lean body, fisted hands resting against his chest as blue eyes were drawn up, though he stared just to the side of beloved features. Aziraphale was immediately swamped with guilt over his outburst. “Oh dear, no. It’s my fault, Anthony. We only have this one moment, and I want it to be perfect. I shouldn’t have had such a tantrum.” And then, with his voice fraught with worry, “I’m a dreadful angel.” He buried his face into the side of Anthony’s neck a moment, drawing in the pleasant, hearth-fire scent. It helped to calm his mounting nerves.

He pressed his mouth to the side of blonde curls, his voice muffled yet reassuring. “Well if Gabriel is what defines being a _good angel_, then I’m pleased as punch that you picked me.” He cupped to the underside of Aziraphale’s chin, lifting blue eyes to his own.

“Would you like some punch…?”

An arched brow. “What? No. Look, I don’t _care_ about the minute details of the wedding. As long as you’re there, the rest is just… just filler. But I can tell this is important to you, so we aren’t going to elope, angel. If you need my help, I’m here for you.” Crowley reclaimed Aziraphale’s hands in both of his own and drew them up for a kiss to knuckles.

“_Oh_, Anthony. You’re just… _I love you_.” He was still fretting, though not as much as previous. “Will you sit with me, and distract me with your cynicism?”

“Cynic? I have never been a cynic a day in my life. I’m fucking delightful.” His small grin was lopsided.

“Language, dear.” This was a quiet admonishment, with a fond sideways glance.

Crowley drew him up onto the bed, and carefully, they maneuvered over the magazines and photos until they could recline comfortably. Crowley laid back first, settling him between his legs. Aziraphale leaned back into his chest, with the back of his head resting to the front of a shoulder. Crowley’s right leg was cocked up to press heel to mattress, and he wrapped his left arm along the front of his chest. Aziraphale held up two different pictures for assessment, and Crowley used his free hand to hold up a third.

It was a comparison of Carlton Towers Estate, Chateau de Chillon, and Miramare Castle. They were all lovely in their own respective rights. “I haven’t been to Miramare Castle. But Carlton Towers has such _lovely _seasonal colours.” His tone had become indecisive as he lowered the pictures to the bed.

“Well, there ya go. That was quick and painless. We go where you haven’t been.” He flicked the glossy photo aside, and curled his arm across Aziraphale’s chest.

He shifted in the embrace, turning so that he was on his knees. “Oh, it rather should be so simple.” His smile was wry as he leaned towards Anthony’s somewhat elevated position. A hand touched to stubbled cheek. He molded the front of his body intimately close, and sealed a firm kiss.

Crowley’s hands instinctively came to rest against shoulder blades, then swept down the soft sweater to rest on his hips. His teeth gently nipped at the full swell of Aziraphale’s bottom lip, then broke the kiss. “I can’t properly help you, angel, if you distract me.” Crowley attempted to redirect Aziraphale back to their original task, so that they could get it over and done with.

He sat back, his expression impassive. Anthony pressed a hand to the bed, and made to sit up. Aziraphale stilled him with a touch to shoulder, which slid down. “I think a distraction is just what is needed.” A dramatic upward sweep of right arm sent photos and magazines scattering, fluttering down around them onto the floor, avoiding Oscar. Again, he pressed his body close with one palm to the mattress, and found Anthony’s mouth.

Crowley couldn’t refuse his angel’s advances. He’d gladly allow Aziraphale to use him as a diversion. His hands swept under the edge of the powder blue sweater and undershirt, gliding over bare skin. Lips parted, and the teasing stroke of his tongue was met with Aziraphale’s.

Fingertips trailed down Anthony’s throat and stroked feather light over the exposed flesh above his shirt. He hesitated a moment, before slowly gliding down to free buttons. He broke the kiss, so that he could sit up. Anthony’s shirt was untucked and spread open. Blue eyes moved in great appreciation over flat stomach, and up to yellow eyes. “You are ever so exquisite, my love.”

Both arms were angled behind his head, outwardly relaxed. His stomach knotted with anticipation under Aziraphale’s thorough scrutiny. “My life’s mission is complete, then. I aim only to please you.” He shot for sarcasm, but it nearly fell short with the quiet sigh that was elicited from his angel’s touch.

Hands slid down the ridge of wiry abdominal muscles. The left lingered on hip, while the other palm molded to growing arousal. Hands converged at the snakehead belt, and Aziraphale devoted a moment to undoing it and leather pants beneath. “Then I must reward you handsomely.”

His hips lifted when Aziraphale drew both jeans and boxer-briefs down. He sat up temporarily to tug off his shirt, tossing the garment so that it joined the rest of black clothing. Crowley reclined back into the pillows, watching as he moved back up the length of the bed – fully clothed. An eyebrow cocked. “You are wearing far too many layers for _anything _that you may have in mind, angel.” When Aziraphale hesitated, uncertain, Crowley moved onto his knees. “Allow me.”

He was drawn to the edge of the bed by the hand, and guided to his feet. Aziraphale curled his fingers around Anthony’s wrists when hands cupped to his own cheeks. The kiss was a delicate, loving caress. His body swayed slightly towards Anthony.

Thumbs stroked affectionately over soft cheeks. His mouth teased against lips momentarily, then came to rest against his brow. Aziraphale’s expression was tranquil. Crowley’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, folding him against his chest, face buried into the halo of curls he loved. He was content to remain like that.

His arms wrapped securely around Anthony’s middle, Aziraphale’s face buried sheepishly into his throat. “Anathema said that she and Newton exchanged private vows to avoid her becoming a _Bride Zilla_. I know you’ll keep me grounded.” Anthony’s laugh vibrated against his chest.

Crowley held him tighter, clearing his throat in an attempt to stifle his mirth. He stammered, “Possibly. I don’t necessarily wanna see that rampaging through the streets of London… but it’d make for a damn good spectacle to watch.”

Aziraphale leaned back enough to frown up at him. “I beg to differ.” The realization that Anthony stood completely unclothed finally occurred to him. His eyes widened, and impulsively, he eased back slightly. His gaze traveled down lean body, marveling.

“I—“ He had to clear his throat to speak, but even then, his voice was still hoarse. “I can feel you looking at me, angel.” Hands dropped to Aziraphale’s biceps, thumbs sweeping against soft fabric.

“I believe… I’m not going to apologize this time...” Blue eyes raised to meet reptilian. Aziraphale held his gaze, though fingers slid delicately down his chest and stomach. And as his hand curled around his hardness, he rose onto his toes, and pressed his mouth to Anthony’s,

Head tipped back briefly as he drew in a hissed breath. Fingers flexed against biceps, then dropped to the hem of Aziraphale’s sweater. It was a primal, urgent need that Crowley get him naked. The soft fabrics were carefully pulled free, and tossed aside. His position shifted, and he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. The angel was drawn to stand between his knees. As lips swept over the softness of Aziraphale’s belly, his hands swept along sides and down. Crowley deftly undid the belt and trousers. Teeth nipped gently, followed by the slide of his tongue. Lower garments were eased off.

Fingers found themselves tangled in red hair, affectionately stroking. His breath was a sharp inhale from the graze of teeth, and his grip tightened slightly. A step back was taken when Anthony rose, but he was drawn against him. His hands rested to bare chest, then slid up to encircle his neck. He could feel Anthony’s arousal, hard against him. “_Oh_.” Their mouths met, and he sighed against the kiss. The slide of tongue against sensitive, inner lip drew a moan from him.

Large hands swept down his back. The predator inside of him began to awaken. A foot moved between Aziraphale’s, lean frame crowding closer, putting the angel off-balance. Crowley held him securely, but used the forward movement of his body to back Aziraphale towards the bed. Palms found placement on backside, and with a firm hold, he pulled Aziraphale onto his toes. It pulled hips into his own, a gentle grind of the the angel’s arousal against his own body. Crowley was rewarded with an answering moan against his own mouth.

His head tipped back, and he clung tighter to Anthony’s shoulders. His heart was in his throat, and he could feel the tension and strength in muscles beneath his hands. Adrenaline coursed through him, and he submitted to it with reckless abandon. His knees hit the back of the bed, but he was held firm to Anthony’s body. Teeth nipped under the curve of his jaw, and tongue eased away the bite. “_Oh, blessed Lord, Anthony._” It was a soft prayer, breathed on a delicate moan. He was pulled higher on his toes, tighter into him. Their mouths met again briefly, before tongue traced over collar bone.

Palms traced up Aziraphale’s back, then down again. With a hand to lower spine, another claimed a wrist. It was a commanding movement that turned him, trapping the front of his lower half against the bed. Left arm slipped under Aziraphale’s, curling up to take a supportive grip over shoulder. Right arm snaked between their bodies, and suddenly slickened fingers teased against his entrance.

His head fell back against Anthony’s shoulder, left arm reflexively raising to grip his hand. Chest heaved with his stuttered breath, and then exhaled on a harsh groan. “_Ooh, God._” A slick finger had entered him, stroking, and then was joined by a second. Lips found the side of his throat, then traced up to his ear. Anthony’s voice was quiet, the timber a deepness that Aziraphale could feel in the bottoms of his toes.

“Do you like that, angel?”

Aziraphale moaned again, an appreciative sound, as that secret sweet spot was caressed. “_Y-yes_…” It was a wondrous, new feeling that he reveled in.

“I want to feel you writhe on my hand, angel.” His head bowed, lips a teasingly light caress at the nape of his neck. “I want to see how many times I can make you climax.” Long fingers continued moving inside of him as his mouth swept along his shoulder. “I want to see if I can make you forget your name.”

Aziraphale whimpered helplessly, nails biting into the back of Anthony’s hand. He couldn’t help but to writhe against him, his breath a harsh sawing through his lungs. He could practically feel Anthony’s question of, “_Do you think I can, angel?”_ It was almost too hard to swallow, let alone speak. He could only nod.

Lips found their way back up his throat; a nip of teeth. His fingers were insistently stroking, teasing over nerves, then sliding away. And then he was trembling, his breathy moans loud in the quiet library. “There’s a good angel,” Crowley held Aziraphale securely against him. “I’ve got you.”

His thighs quivered as he reached his release, his moan cracking. His arousal throbbed achingly as his climax streaked across his belly and fell to the sheets beneath him. “G-_god_...” Anthony’s fingers stilled for a moment, only long enough for him to draw breath. “_Oooh…_”

“_How many times can my angel orgasm?_” His mouth was a soft caress at the back of his ear, the slide of his fingers slow and deliberate. He could feel Aziraphale stiffen against him with the change of his hand, a spasm wrenching through his body.

His free arm shifted back, just enough to find purchase on Anthony’s hip. And _oh, Blessed be_, as fingers moved mercilessly over secret places, his grip tightened. He could feel another orgasm climbing, the pressure growing unbearable. “_A-anthony…?_” He sounded concerned.

Aziraphale grew limp, but Crowley tightened his hold, keeping him aloft as a second orgasm stole through him. He murmured another encouragement. “_There you go._”

Tendons stood out in his neck as his shoulders arched up against Anthony’s immobilizing hold. It was the worst and most delicious sensation, the way fingers wouldn’t let him come down completely after his release and danced over places that were much too sensitive. It was hard for him to find his voice, and when he did it was a frantic plea. “A-Anthony... I don-don't know if I _can._ But _sweet Mary, p-please don't stop..._”

Crowley rested his cheek against curls that had gone damp with sweat at the temples. Aziraphale was quivering against his hand, which followed him through the orgasms, and met him relentlessly on the other side. “_Oh_, angel.” It was a gentle reminder. “You have more than that in you.”

His eyes were squeezed closed, and his teeth scraped harshly over his bottom lip. The sting of pain over the ceaseless stroking drew a reflexive moan. And then, desperately, vulnerably, through the pleasure that was almost too much for him, “_Anthony…?_”

“I’m with you, angel.” Pelvis undulated against Crowley’s hand as he pushed Aziraphale through another climax, “Ah, there. See? You’re alright.” His mouth was gentle worship along shoulder and neck, tasting of salt and speckled with beads of sweat. “Three more, and I’ll let you rest, alright?”

“_Oh!_” It was a wretched cry, and he vehemently shook his head in denial. He was frantic, Anthony’s fingers ensuring that he never quite came down completely from the high of his orgasm. “T-three?” But he could. Aziraphale couldn’t prepare himself for the sudden wave of release, and his plea became an unexpected beg that Anthony not stop then, that he help him feel it all. “_Please_.” It hurt, but unlike anything Aziraphale had ever experienced.

His voice was a quiet hiss, muffled against blonde curls, “_Ssssee? _There’s a good angel. Two more.” His hand falling still was a short reprieve. Aziraphale’s breath was cleaving in and out of his chest, and he leaned against Crowley for support. “You ready?” He didn’t allow Aziraphale to reply before his hand was moving with the singular intent of wrenching the remaining promised orgasms from him, quite thoroughly. Crowley could feel him coming undone, each intricately woven thread that carefully kept the angel so prim and rigid unraveling. It left him gasping and writhing helplessly.

_How do I get ready?_ was a fleeting thought. Muscles flexed and relaxed, then drew taut again. He had no more to give when the next wave swept him up, his orgasm dry but no less intense. And even as darkness encroached on his vision and his head swum dizzily, he found his voice. “_An---Oh,_” And then, just as he had begun his descent from the high of release, he shuddered harshly, and his hips jerked. Anthony was relentless, following, pushing as an immediate subsequent orgasm tore through him. Aziraphale’s vision did go dark then as he came undone.

Crowley felt Aziraphale go limp, and his hand instinctively fell away, the hand catching hip. "You still with me, angel?" There was worry that crept into his voice. 

It took him a moment, his gasp a sharp inhale. "Mmhmm," words currently eluded him, but he was able to find strength in legs that still quivered. 

"Should I stop?"

"I would be quite cross with you if you stopped, Anthony."

He buried his face in blonde curls, his hand nestling against plump bottom again. Slick fingers were gentle, yet insistent.

A strangled yell caught in his throat as Anthony stroked him, rekindling the fire that was a pleasure so blindingly intense that it hurt as the orgasm consumed him. Anthony’s hand was relentless inside of him, and nails left red welts on the hip and hand that he clung to. “_Ffffuck._” He hadn’t meant to say it – didn’t even realize he had. Aziraphale’s body was nearly vibrating, the pain and sweet release so unmanageable that he was certain he would discorporate.

Crowley almost lost control the moment that the swear fall from angelic lips, flesh stinging from the scrape of nails. He could have finished without being touched, _almost did_. Tremors were still sweeping through Aziraphale, his body still cresting the orgasm when his arousal replaced fingers. His growl was a grating sound in his throat, his own arousal throbbing with ache and need. It was a special kind of torture Crowley would willingly endure to ensure that he thoroughly distracted Aziraphale.

His sharply inhaled breath had everything to do with the welcome, familiar fullness. And since he had been given scarcely a moment to recover from his release, there was also that delicious, terrifying, wonderful pain. “_P-please_…”

Crowley’s right hand shifted, fingers tangling into soft curls. His grip was firm as he drew Aziraphale to the side, enough so that he could force a turn of his head. Crowley hovered over his shoulder, meeting wide blue eyes a brief moment, "I love you, angel." Their mouths joined in a gentle kiss.

A gasp was wrenched from his throat, tingles of pain and pleasure shooting up nerve endings. His own hand raised reflexively and found purchase on Anthony’s forearm, his hold weak. Reptilian gaze was met with the twist of his body, his heart a harsh drumbeat in his chest. The love he saw there never failed to pull at his heart in the sweetest of aches. And then their lips met. Anthony’s thrusts were purposeful, grazing against that secret spot that clenched his insides and made him want to climax again. Aziraphale clung to him, his helpless whimper muffled against Anthony’s mouth.

The grip he had to Aziraphale’s left shoulder tightened, a guarding hold that kept his chest pressed to the angel’s back. His kiss was greedy, drinking the impassioned sounds. Their breathing was equally rapid as his hips moved more forcefully against backside. Crowley’s hold on blonde curls relaxed, and his arm slid down to wrap his hand around Aziraphale’s erection. Lubricant slickened Crowley’s palm, allowing him to stroke fluidly.

The kiss was broken as his head fell forward, a hard gasp wrenched from his throat. “_Ooohhgodoh…_” He was becoming incoherent, and was spasming with fervor now. His eyes squeezed closed, and his brows furrowed in a pained scowl. His erection was too sensitive, and as Aziraphale’s climax stole through him, he squirmed and writhed in an attempt to escape the relentless, purposeful stroking hand and thrusting inside of him. Anthony’s grip on him was a bondage he couldn’t escape, and Aziraphale knew, distantly, that he didn’t want to, no matter how much it hurt and also felt _so impossibly good. _

Crowley’s movements were unyielding. He continued to thrust inside of him, while maintaining the insistent stroking, ensuring that each wave of _divine ecstasy_ was thoroughly ridden. The angel’s writhing against him forced a harsh groan through grit teeth. His own release was near, but Crowley fought against it. Brows furrowed with the intensity of his focus. When he was certain that Aziraphale’s orgasm was spent, he fell still at last, their bodies still connected, and his arousal throbbing inside of him. A hand gently guided the angel’s head to rest back against him. His own breaths were ragged, his voice rough against the shell of an ear. “_How was the main course?_”

He leaned back into Anthony because he had no strength. The question was heard, but the words seemed incomprehensible. For a moment, Aziraphale felt he had returned to the ethereal plane, “_Discorp’rate?_” It was a concerned question that was followed by Anthony’s quiet laugh against his neck. He found that he still very much had a physical form but that his eyes were closed and he was having difficulty discerning what different sensations meant presently.

His laugh was a satisfied, gravelly sound. “Not quite, but we still have time.” Crowley withdrew slowly, his groan mirrored with another answering tremble from his angel. With a supportive hold, he turned Aziraphale, and drew him into his chest with right arm to his lower back. Their mouths met again for a moment. Crowley guided Aziraphale up and onto the bed, providing strength to limbs that trembled in their weakness.

He obediently rested back into the numerous pillow as directed, because he had no energy to do otherwise. Blue eyes drank in Anthony as he knelt beside him. And then, tapping into the last reserves of his endurance, fingertips trailed longingly down lightly corded muscles, curling at the base of his arousal. His hand drew up, and thumb stroked over the satiny slit and spread the slickness of dripping arousal around velvety head. It was a guttural, primal sound that was elicited from the touch. Anthony’s grip was a vice on his wrist, halting him. His gaze flicked up questioningly to meet voracious yellow eyes.

“No. That’s not on the menu tonight.” Crowley shifted down the bed, and settled between thighs that had obligingly parted. His mouth was worshipful as he kissed Aziraphale’s soft belly. Hands traced up his sides, then swept back down. As Crowley repositioned himself more comfortably, he flicked his attention up to study his angel’s features. He wasn’t given time to grow soft – Crowley redirected his grip to aching erection, and took him into his mouth. His tongue rasped over the satiny head.

Hands fisted into the blanket. Jaw dropped, and he gasped harshly. Another shudder overtook him, and his heels flattened to the bed. The touch was unbearable, too much on too-sensitive flesh. Muscles flexed as he pushed himself higher up the mattress, an instinctive attempt to pull away. His tone was uncertain, his voice climbing an octave. “_Anthony, please, n-no.”_ Aziraphale couldn’t decide if he wanted it to end, or to beg Anthony to never stop.

_No_. Crowley immediately stopped, and sat up. Hands came to rest atop Aziraphale’s thighs. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” The demon searched his angel’s expression.

Dismayed, he rose back up onto his elbows. “N-no!” His tone had a shrill, frenzied edge to it. “No… I-I didn’t mean it!”

Crowley couldn’t hide the satisfied grin that curved his mouth. He paused for another lingering moment to, perhaps, allow Aziraphale to change his mind. When there was no further objection, he leaned back down and his tongue flattened to the underside of erection, licking up the length. Aziraphale collapsed back into the pillows. Crowley teased over the slit with the tip of his tongue. Aziraphale’s desperate moans encouraged him. Lips caressed over silky head, before parting. Tongue flattened, and he lowered his head to envelope the entire length of arousal in the warmth of his mouth. Under him, Aziraphale’s hips jerked, a choked sound resonating when he reached throat. Crowley could feel the pulse of erection in response. Chin lifted slightly, and his tongue rolled against the underside of shaft as he drew back up. Yellow eyes flicked back up – a furrowing of his brow, jaw dropped, and a peek of blue beneath heavy lids. He felt an immense satisfaction that he was able to bring such obvious ecstasy to his angel. An eyebrow cocked, a silent acknowledgement that he was well aware of how much Aziraphale had enjoyed it.

Right hand moved from the bed linens, trailing prayerfully through fiery hair. The soft strands sliding through his fingers helped ground him as Anthony used his mouth on him. It was excruciating. A spasm racked through him, and his muscles grew taut. “_Oh, Blessed Lo—“ _Lids fluttered, but his gaze was unwavering from the sight of his arousal disappearing into the warmth of his mouth. A fractured moan, “_Anthony_…” The involuntarily firm hold he had taken in red hair relaxed, his hand trembling as he brushed through soft hair again. Once more, he was taken completely into Anthony’s mouth. Spine arched off the bed, head thrown back into the pillows. Release threatened to overtake him again. Fingers trailed, trembling, down the side of Anthony’s features, and slipped beneath his chin. It was the lightest of touches to encourage him to lift his head, but Anthony complied easily.

Crowley could have brought pleasure to his angel with his mouth all day. With the soft direction, yellow eyes rose. “Tell me what you want.” His voice was glass in his throat. Hands framed Aziraphale’s hips, his gaze unwavering from blue as the tip of his tongue teased up the underside of arousal, then at the base of the velvety head.

It was difficult to process Anthony’s command. His jaw fell again when tongue teased sensitive flesh. The sight of him pleasuring Aziraphale was too much. “_You! Please!_” It was a frantic plea of utter desperation.

“You already have me. _Say it_.” It was a quiet demand, lips and warm breath a gentle caress with each word. Eye contact was maintained as he stroked a hand up and down shaft.

“I-I _can’t take it… I=I want_…” Aziraphale’s cheeks were already pink, but now darkened with the flush of warmth. It was hard to assimilate Anthony’s words, but even more difficult to find a polite way of verbally explain precisely what he wanted.

His voice was close to a growl, “Say it, angel.” Thumb circled over the silky tip and along the slit.

His head fell back again, and he whimpered powerlessly. He fought against the impending orgasm that was _just there _and struggled with propriety. “_Please_, Anthony.” It was not only a plea for Anthony to give him what he knew Aziraphale asked for, but a plea that he also not have to vocalize it.

“Say. It.” The head of erection was taken between his lips, the flat of his tongue used to stroke.

“I cou—I _can’t_…” Aziraphale’s groan was of frustration and pleasure, his toes curling and legs shifting restlessly – a frustrated yet blissful sound. He could find no delicate phrasing, despite considerable evaluation. “_I-want-you-inside-of-me_!” The words were just coherent enough to be understood.

“I’ll take it.” Crowley couldn’t help but grin proudly and reward him. He slid up the length of Aziraphale’s body, bracing left hand to the mattress. While their mouths met, his free arm slipped between them. His erection was almost painful with his need to climax, and he pulsed in response to his own slickening grip. His thrust was a gentle pressure forward, though there was no hesitation. Free arm slid between mattress and Aziraphale’s back and Crowley fell into a rhythmic, forceful thrusting.

Right hand curved along left bicep, and free hand rested at the nape of neck so thumb could sweep through soft hair. His moan was muffled as tongues danced against one another. The kiss was broken as his head tipped to the side, drawing in strained breaths. Anthony was pulled down into him as he slid his arm around his neck. His climax spiraled through him, and he cried out. Toes curled again, and he shuddered beneath Anthony weakly. Each continued stroke inside of him ensured that he felt each subsequent aftershock of pleasure.

Brow touched to the angel’s shoulder, his breath a quivering exhale. He was ready for his climax. Crowley’s great motivator was to bring his angel pleasure and after doing so again and again, Crowley’s arousal was aching desperately for release. Being buried inside of Aziraphale was almost too much for him. Aziraphale writhed beneath him. Crowley’s embrace flexed, and he growled with his orgasm. The demon clung to his angel, tension stealing over muscles. Yet even as he crested his orgasm, he leaned back enough to assess Aziraphale’s expression. It was a reflection of euphoria and peaceful joy. Lips swept lovingly over left cheekbone. When both were drained, Crowley collapsed to the left of him, and drew him into his chest. Yet, even as he was drawing sheets up to their waists, Aziraphale’s body lost the last remainder of tension, and he crashed hard into the oblivion of sleep. Crowley held him for a long time, too content that he had been able to so thorough exhaust Aziraphale, to sleep so soon.

Rain battered the window, and weak morning sunlight danced through the window behind their bed. Aziraphale had never, _ever _slept so peacefully. But now that he was awake, his thoughts were starting to darken with the anxiety of things that still needed to be done for their wedding. A palm stroked down Anthony’s spine – their positioning had changed sometime through the night, and he lay stretched on his back, Anthony had curled into his left side and draped himself across Aziraphale’s body.

Anthony was still asleep, his words quiet and mumbled to himself. “Aside from a few minor details, everything is set. If one can overlook the fact that I haven’t any idea who should officiate, and _where_ the event should be held.”

_Should be held…_ it was almost a tangible statement.

Static prickled over flesh, and the heaviness in the air felt reminiscent of a breeze’s kiss on a hot summer’s day.

Crowley was suddenly uncomfortably, very alert, the blankets pooling around his hips as he sat up, disoriented, yet on the defense.

Exotic flowers and spices teased the senses. _Love_, and warmth and Light fell upon them.

“_I believe **I** might be of some assistance..._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	18. Quite an extraordinary amount of alcohol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

All the arrangements had been made. The only matter that needed tending was the wedding party to receive their invitations. For that, only one man could be trusted.

The back door slid closed with a clatter of metal. A glance both left and right, and he crossed the street without incident.

The sun was hidden behind grey clouds, though it occasionally stole through shine over the path. The courier fell into step alongside the athletic man.

“Package for you, sir.”

They continued on for several yards, before a white cordless earphone was removed. The Champs’ _Tequila _filtered up from the small device. “A what?” He did not stop.

The courier kept stride. “Delivery, sir. You know, a letter.”

He drew to a sudden halt, his expression disdainful. He snatched the extended letter and turned to leave.

A clipboard and pen were held out to him. “Need your signature here, sir.”

To fill the silence while the tall man signed begrudgingly, “My wife is trying to get me to take up running. I tell her I get plenty of exercise on the job. Much appreciated, sir.”

“You have a good day now, sir.” He jogged back in the way of the post van.

The envelope was torn open, and it scattered in the breeze.

“**WHAT**?!”

His voice startled birds from the trees, and was answered with the deep bay of distant dogs.

The sun hung high and heavy in the sky, an unrelenting heat that wasn’t assuaged by the ocean’s breeze.

Despite the oppressive warmth, they stood unshaded on the greenery. Their features were impassive, disguising the pride. The state in a whole posed no challenge for a demon of their position, though their prized performer was a frequent visitor of the island resort. He had been performing remarkably well, as of late. Dark suit was forfeit for a vibrant orange Hawaiian shirt. This was almost a vacation for them.

“Sir. You’re a hard one to pin down.” The courier’s gaze flicked to the game they observed. “Oh, bad luck, mate. He should’ve used a putter for that.”

They remained silent, though their expression was an open question of _just who the heaven are you? _

“Letter for you, sir.” The pale envelope was taken with indifference, the courier dismissed.

“Just need a signature.” The clipboard was held out, the name a fiery trace of an old rune. The courier swat good-naturedly at a fly. “The bugs seem par for the course. Enjoy your game, sir.”

There was a knock. Elfie was fussy on her hip, red faced and screeching. A flustered Anathema opened the door for the courier.

“Letter for you, ma’am.” He smiled at the howling baby. “Oh, look at her. The wife and I are expecting our first.”

The letter was taken, and immediately Elfie took it and brought it to her mouth. Anathema held a hand out for a pen to sign. “Really. Congratulations.” Her signature was a flourish of curls and curves.

Before he could say anything else, the door was shut.

The doors were slammed closed behind him, and Aziraphale gave a startled gasp. “Sssshhh--ssssssttttt-_sssss_.” He touched a silencing finger to his mouth, and frowned at the doors. He made his way down an aisle, then drew to a halt halfway down. “Oh, _bugger_. I’m lost.” He turned to assess his location, his attention falling on the spines of books. “_Oooh!_” It was a delighted sound as he lovingly took claim of a book. “My Sh-… Shakespeare’s-…” He frowned down at the blurred cover, his train of thought lost. “…Folio! I bet Anthony misplaced you. S’okay… _I found you, my dear. _Take you back home.”

The screen’s picture was fast paced, the sounds of guns and warfare loud in his headphones.

“_Fuck off, old man!_” It was a high pitched, boyish screech.

“_Old _man?” Indignant. “I’ll have you know that I’ve kept my human form as good as new since the beginning.” Crowley was centered in the middle of their bed, legs crossed together, and elbows resting atop his knees.

“You talk like an old fogey. How old are you, Grandpa?” Crowley shot the kid’s character again. “Ah, screw you_, _prick.”

“Does your mother know you talk like this? Nevermind, I’ll ask her tonight when I come see her.” He tried to hide his humor as he navigated towards the kid again.

“Don’t talk about my mom, you asshole!” A frustrated shriek. “Stop killing me, douchebag! We’re on the same team!”

Crowley grinned, absolutely delighted. “You’re playing the game entirely wrong. It’s every man for themselves.”

“Hey shithead, are you _British_?”

Gunfire, and the boy’s frustrated shout. “No, I’m an infernal being that slithered up from the depths of Hell.”

“You’re too old to be such an EdgeLord.” Another angry yell. “I’m a better player at this game, so fuck you.”

“That’s what your mom said last night.” His tone was sarcastic, and he grinned mischievously.

The boy’s character was assassinated once more. “Get _fucked, _asshole!”

“Get fucked, is that the best you can come up with?” Crowley quite liked video games.

His phone began vibrating in his pocket, but it was ignored.

His thigh connected with the corner of a table, a palm pressing to rub away the sting. “Oh! Excuse me. My most sincere apologies.” Aziraphale grinned lopsidedly at the table. “Oh no!” This was shouted when he lowered his attention to empty hands. “Shakeysphere Folio! Where did you—ah.” He had begun turning, searching the floor, and found the book just behind him. The angel picked it up, and held it to his chest. “I am _so _sorry, book. Come, I’ll make us some nice cocoa.”

Aziraphale had resumed his trek towards their private area. “I heard some delightful songs tonight!” And now, off tune, he serenaded the book. “It’s raining men!” He finally reached his destination, and fluttered fingers in greeting to his distracted fiancé’s back.

“_HA! You ain’t shit, kid!”_ The kid’s enraged shriek was high pitched in his ear, but Crowley only grinned toothily.

Aziraphale gasped, indignant, and splayed fingers over the back of the book, “I do beg your pardon! Mind your language, there are delectable ears here.”

“_Who the fuck was that?_”

“Who the fuck was--?” He finally glanced up, scanning around him, then behind to where Aziraphale stood. He had entered their homely area from the far side. “Angel!” His voice was a delighted call, and then into the headset. “You shut your goddamn mouth, that’s my angel.”

“_WHO _are you… t-talking to?” He swayed where he stood.

“Is that your boyfriend, or somethin’?”

“Soon to be husband, you little shit.” He growled into the headset, but Aziraphale had most of his attention. The bowtie hung untied down his chest, the first three buttons of his shirt open.

“Kiss my---“

“Hey kid, congratulations, you won!” Headphones were removed, and tossed aside with the controller. Aziraphale had his undivided attention, now. The light above them shone down on the angel, who sparkled like a modern vampire in the sun. Under the glitter, his cheeks were flushed pink, and his blonde curls were tousled. His shirttail peeked out under the hem of his waistcoat. Crowley arched an eyebrow, trying unsuccessfully to hide his delighted grin. “Have fun, did we, angel?”

He stumbled forward, his smile a radiant joy as he turned, and fell back onto the bed. “Oh, it was won—wa… _yes!_” His head bent back, and he stared upside down at his fiancé with a pleased giggle. “How was your stag party?” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here, and say that it wasn’t near as much fun as yours.” His thoughts flickered briefly back onto _him and Newt standing in the drive of Jasmine cottage, waving off Aziraphale, Anathema, and Tracy. Beside him, Newt stood dressed surprisingly nice, thanks to his wife. Elfie was being watched by Adam and The Them. Newton turned to him, mouth opening to say something. Crowley cut him off with a, “Right. Have a nice evening.” He crossed to the Bentley and folded himself behind the wheel._ “How were the hens?”

“Ooooh, Anthony!” He rolled over onto his belly, his chin supported in right palm. “We had just such a wondrous-ful time! I believe some of the Shakespeare practices are coming back into fashion.” _Shakespeare’s _name was so mangled when Aziraphale spoke it, that it was hardly understood.

Crowley’s expression was just as awed as if the angel had told him all over again that he had given away his flaming sword. Aziraphale was _beyond _blitzed, He still sat with his legs crossed together. Intrigued, “Which one?”

Moving up onto hands and knees, Aziraphale closed the distance between them. He flopped onto his back, but laid his head in Anthony’s lap. “We watched an entire show of what humans are calling Drag. Queens.”

Fingers swept through blonde curls, and he grinned affectionately down at Aziraphale. “Drag queens, eh?” Eyebrows raised in surprise that his angel had sat through the event.

He smiled up at his fiancé, then shouted out in excitement. “Ananathemum said that she was going to telegraph you _sooo _many phot_oh_graphs.” He raised his right arm, fingers tugging gently at the thin black shirt.

Without shifting the angel in his lap too much, Crowley dug the iPhone out of his pocket. He had felt it vibrate earlier, many times, but had ignored it. Now he unlocked the screen and opened the texts. It was a story in pictures of their night out, Aziraphale timid yet happy. Each picture featured a different frou-frou cocktail in the angel’s hand. Crowley could see Aziraphale visibly loosening as the night progressed. “What were you drinking?”

“Oh! I had a Blowjob. It was scrumptious.” He beamed up at Anthony.

He cackled. Crowley found it outrageously endearing that his angel had no clue of what the term meant, yet used it confidently. “I’d say.”

He was absolutely oblivious. “And then… and _then_… they pulled me on stage and all. One of ‘em had me mistaken for our lady Queen Lizbith.” Aziraphale redirected the hand that was in his hair, and cupped it in both of his own. He held it up for him to examine the length of Anthony’s fingers in comparison to his own.

He would have to tell the woman thanks one day. The pictures were amazing. There were candid’s of the angel standing by a table with Tracy. With them was a petite, striking woman with dramatic makeup, teased blonde hair, tattoos, and a white-to-gold sequin body suit. Multiple gold chains were draped down her exposed chest, a white cape sweeping the floor, shimmering hose, and golden heels. “Why would you say that?”

“They referred to me as The Old Queen.” Aziraphale giggled at this and prodded at the back of the phone.

Crowley opened an attached video.

_Aziraphale was leaned against Anathema, inebriated. She held the phone out in front of them. “I wanna go home. I miss Anthony…” His voice held a tinge of a whine. He trailed off, his words unintelligible. _

_“What is it, Aziraphale?” Anathema grinned, mouthing at the phone: _ ** _He’s very drunk._ **

_The witch’s statement was confirmed with a hiccup. “I miss Anthony. I love him. He thinks he’s so clever with his… his sharp tongue. And really he is… it’s s-so adorable. That’s where I picked it up from. Sometimes I’ll say… sumthing that amu… tickles him, and I just relish the moments that he looks at me sooo proudly.”_ The video ended.

“I’m sorry I missed _that_.” It was hard for the demon to quiet his laughter. The remainder of the pictures included Aziraphale in a chair, his hands held up uncomfortably in front of himself, while a drag queen in a glittery bustier and thigh high boots stretched herself in his lap. Yet despite the tension of his posture, there was laughter in blue eyes.

A quiet murmur to himself of, “_Miss Vanjie_…” It took the angel a few attempts, and a supportive hand from Anthony, for him to rise up onto his knees.

“Oy. _Wot_ is a Vanjie?” His legs uncrossed for Aziraphale, who braced gripped his shoulders. With a hand on hips, he helped to guide Aziraphale into a straddle on his lap.

“_Oh, _she looked like an angel…” His voice was light and airy, then dropped low. “But sounded like a trombone filled with gravel.” His hands traced from shoulders, down chest, then back up again. Lips were curved in a crooked smile, and he giggled again. “She was ‘merican like Anth’ma.”

Crowley basked in the angel’s unrelenting joy. _He’s so goddamn cute_. Palms swept up Aziraphale’s back, his stare intent on his angel’s smiling lips.

He traced over the contours of lightly corded muscles, and giggled quietly to himself. “I get to touch you whenever I please, now.” Their mouths met when Aziraphale leaned in. His hands framed Anthony’s cheeks, and he sat up a bit higher. The night had gone on too long, he had grown too weary. But then he had returned home, and his world had been right again, knowing he’d get to be with his Anthony. A quiet laugh was breathed amidst the kiss. He was _so happy_.

Left hand cupped to the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, the other pressed between his shoulders. The angel’s joyous sounds were met with a smile. Right hand swept back down. Beneath his touch, he could feel the soft fabric of coat, the wrinkle of waistcoat, and a disheveled powder blue shirt. His angel was charming, but his outdated outfit was exasperating. “Now I know I have told you about all these layers,” this was said teasingly.

There was no hesitation, or worry when Aziraphale sat back slightly. A sharp snap with a dramatic exhaled breath, and he was completely naked. He gave a delighted little wiggle with a bright grin. “MAGIC.” The angel dissolved into another fit of giggles.

“A most useful trick.” His grin was broad. The stroke of his palm over bare back was affectionate. Crowley was love-struck by his angel, who was so overjoyed, and carefree. His arms encircled Aziraphale’s waist, and with a playful growl, he nuzzled into the side of his neck.

Aziraphale’s head tipped towards Anthony’s, a quiet shriek of delight from the nuzzle of stubbled cheeks. He swayed back, his hands pressing to shoulders. When Anthony’s head lifted, he leaned forward and sealed their mouths together. Another sound of surprise when he was pulled down atop Anthony as he laid back. His breath hitched in his throat, followed by a quiet laugh. A hand braced to the mattress, and he lifted up enough so that he could gaze down at his fiancé. “Y’er so pretty.” His face was alight with his bright smile. Sitting up completely, he frowned down at the clothing that Anthony still wore. “Oh no. Nonono… this won’t do a’tall.” Fingers were clumsy as they tried to free the buttons.

Crowley’s arms lowered to the bed, his hands resting on Aziraphale’s knees. He didn’t offer to help to remove his own clothing – his angel looked far too adorable as he concentrated intently, his hands fumbling. Despite it, Aziraphale’s smile remained.

Three buttons had been freed when he huffed. “Would be a lot simpler if the world would just stay still a _moment_.” The shirt was tugged free of leather. Teeth pulled at his bottom lip, silencing the sigh when he noted the remainder of buttons that needed opening. “Confounding buttons!”

“Allow me, angel.” Hands lifted from thighs. With an overly theatrical gesture, Crowley snapped with both hands, which then fluidly moved to support the back of his head.

Aziraphale laughed boisterously. Anthony now laid beneath him unclothed. “Magic!” A hand braced to bare stomach, balancing himself atop Anthony as his body swayed with his giggles. “You’re the _best _magicksion!”

Crowley’s grin was lopsided. Taking grip of Aziraphale’s hips supportingly, their positions were reversed – Aziraphale was flipped to his back, with Crowley sliding between his thighs. For a moment, he hovered over Aziraphale, whose giggles had only increased with the movement. He couldn’t recall a time when he had felt such _peace_ as he did in that moment, watching the reflection of pure, unadulterated joy shine from blue eyes. There was no anxiety, or worry furrowing his brow, and Crowley wanted to commit the moment to memory. _This is perfect_. He wanted to help Aziraphale feel that way all the time. Arms slipped between the mattress and his back, their bodies molded together with his cheek resting against chest. “I love you, angel.” His embrace tightened, holding more securely.

A shout of delight with the sudden and unexpected shift in positions. At last, his giggles finally subsided, and his arms wrapped around Anthony’s shoulders. The embrace helped to ground him, though his absolute elation diminished none. Fingers swept through red hair. When he spoke, the words were quiet and thoughtful, an outward vocalization of his inner monologue. “I so do love your hair. Sometimes, I miss how it was long. I had always wanted to run my fingers through it.” Words were still heavy with alcohol, though his touch was feather-light when pressed to the underside of Anthony’s chin. It was a gentle guidance.

Crowley slid up the length of Aziraphale’s body, right forearm bracing to the bed. Their mouths met again, and he could feel his angel smile against the kiss. He couldn’t help but to mirror it with one of his own. Left palm cupped jaw, and his chin lifted to secure their mouths together.

His lips parted beneath the kiss, a quiet sigh. Left hand molded to the back of Anthony’s head, tangling into red hair. Tongues teased against one another, and he whimpered quietly. The kiss was broken when Anthony moved his mouth along the curve of his jaw. A tilt of his head, and an exhaled moan. “_Oh_, I love when you do this… I can feel it throughout my wh—“ A soft gasp from the graze of teeth at his throat, his body trembling ever so delicately beneath him. “_That feels amazing_.” Emphasis fell at the center of the word, his breath hitching.

Thumb swept over cheek, curving along the underside of chin. With the gentle grip, he tipped Aziraphale’s head further. Aziraphale’s voice was breathy near his ear, a chill racing down his spine. He could have sat back and spent the night listening to his angel speak so freely without Heaven’s twisted filter forcing him to carefully calculate each uttered word. Crowley could not have loved Aziraphale any more than he did in that moment. In an attempt to foster the angel’s soliloquy, his kisses trailed down, left hand sweeping over soft curves, tongue tasting.

“Anthony, my love…” The names were said with reverence. Fingers played in red hair, his breath catching. His free hand swept down his back, another moaned gasp from the sting of teeth. Anthony was sinking lower down his body, but was stilled with a soft grip to left bicep. Yellow eyes raised to meet blue, his sigh quiet. He’d lost his original thought, and couldn’t help but smile affectionately at his beloved’s countenance. Aziraphale was filled so thoroughly with love, and peace. “I love everything about you, Anthony J. Crowley.” His smile only brightened when Anthony moved back up, sealing their mouths.

There was something different in the blue eyes that stared down at him, a look that he had seen numerous times, but that was so profound it tightened his chest. Acceptance. Despite his Fall, Crowley had found his own slice of Heaven. He would do anything to protect that. The kiss was firm, a wordless promise.

Aziraphale’s right arm wrapped around Anthony’s neck, drawing him in. Left hand trailed lightly down Anthony’s spine, goosebumps prickling flesh, then slid between their bodies. Unable to resist, Aziraphale giggled quietly into the kiss, a murmur of _“magic”_ against Anthony’s lips when his palm became miraculously slick.

His crooked smile fell when fingers curled around him. He grew firmer in a touch that was confident in the caress. A groan was suppressed into the side of his neck. Aziraphale’s laugh was husky near his ear. “_I love that I can affect you like this._” A quiet growl into the angel’s throat was his reply. Fingers flexed into the mattress, which bore his weight. “I need you, angel.” It was a quiet admission, one he’d never vocalized before. Crowley strove to ensure complete satisfaction for Aziraphale when they made love but… in that moment, basking in the angel’s blissful joy and love, Crowley found that he desperately needed that moment of intimate connection. He felt shameful for what felt like such a selfish desire, and buried his face more completely in the crook of neck and shoulder.

His hand fell away from Anthony’s arousal, the arm curling along his back. His head turned, and as it did, he guided chin up. “I’m yours.” Aziraphale held the reptilian gaze as Anthony moved against him, and pressed forward. Lips parted for a moan, his stare unwavering. “_Take me_.” It was a quiet plea as he drew Anthony up, mouths joining.

Both arms encircled Aziraphale, holding him close as he moved between spread thighs, his thrusts determined. Crowley drank his moans, the kiss a gentle caress of mouths. Crowley watched the slight roll of blue behind fluttering lashes, Aziraphale’s body relaxed beneath his own, and his eyes closed to revel in the intimacy of their connection.

It was the faintest whisper of wind chimes, the sound easily masked under panted breaths and quiet moans. A movement, perhaps, that had blue eyes flicking to just over Anthony’s left shoulder. Tension swept through him, and he fell inert. It was as if a switch had been flipped – bliss and joy evaporated into a familiar desolation.

His head lifted, body stilling. There was a shift in the air, like static electricity. Crowley could feel the change in his angel, and lifted his head to watch the happiness die in blue eyes. It was replaced with an emotion that clawed painfully at his chest, something he never wanted Aziraphale to feel. _Fucking bastard._ He didn’t have to look to know that they had an unwelcome visitor. Crowley whirled around, crouched, muscles drawn taut -- a snake poised for the strike. He made himself a barrier between Gabriel and Aziraphale, right arm swept protectively back to keep the angel behind him.

Anger simmered inside of him, though his outward presentation was bored. Lavender fell upon a most unseemly vision, and a large hand stretched out, shielding his eyes. His head turned with the grimace, and his gaze averted. “**OH!**” It was a deep shout of revulsion.

A low growl issued forth from Oscar’s throat, and his head lifted from where it had rested atop crossed paws. Now he trotted over to the intruder, the fur on his back rising.

“What the _fuck _are you doing here?” Each word dripped with unspoken threats of grievous bodily harm.

“Can you two even do…” Hand turned, palm up, and Gabriel gestured to the two of them, “…_that_?” A sneer emphasized his disgust as he shoved fists back into the pockets of the wool coat that was a shade of blue so muted it was almost grey.

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself and find out?” Crowley’s smile was a baring of his teeth. He knew Aziraphale’s position on violence, and desperately fought to maintain some form of composure. It was nearly impossible with the memory of the execution looping through his thoughts, _I think you’re gonna like this, I really do. And I bet you didn’t see this one coming. _His jaw locked painfully with his restraint, muscles almost trembling from the exertion.

French blue bed linens were clutched just under his chin to hide his nudity, his head bowed. Aziraphale tried to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. Alcohol had dampened his inhibitions, allowed the happiness to spill over. Now it made it impossible to lock away a history rife with emotional and verbal torment. He felt impossibly vulnerable. He could see the loathing etched in features that had been cut from granite when he timidly peered up, and had to swallow past the painful lump in his throat. The last being he wanted to see during such a wonderful moment sneered down at him, reminding him of just how worthless his existence was.

Gabriel took a step towards the bed, then drew to a sudden halt. He bowed slightly towards them, his tone patronizing as hands clapped before him. “When God hears about this abomina—“

“Oh, _fuck you_.” Crowley was on his feet in an instant. His movements were fluid as he crossed the mattress in long legged strides. Tight, low slung leather pants with his favored snakehead belt clothed his lower half by the time a bare foot dropped to the floor. _This is Charles all over again_… a being that threatened the safety of his angel and needed to be dispatched. A palm crashed harshly to the front of shoulder, and he gripped a fistful of jacket, jerking the Archangel close. “Square up, motherfucker.” Crowley shoved him back then with both fists to his chest. Knuckles cracked as his hands fisted at his sides.

The moment Crowley vacated the bed, Oscar jumped to the mattress – placing himself between his angelic father and the threat. He continued to growl lowly.

Aziraphale’s voice was a quiet plea, a hand outstretched, beseeching. “Anthony, _no_.” He scrambled to his knees, his vision blurred and swimming.

Lavender eyes narrowed in a furious glare, cracking his neck. He was aching for a fight, and the demon had the audacity to _touch_ him. “It’s disgusting. I never thought I would see the day an angel allowed himself to be seduced by the perversions of a repugnant demon.” Large hand slammed in return into Crowley’s right shoulder. “…even an angel who is so fucking pathetic he can’t get off his _stupid_, fat ass to do his God given job.” His hateful glare shifted to the angel in question, his words a verbal weapon to cut.

Crowley anticipated the returned shove, his body twisting slightly to the right to absorb the blow. A foot placed behind him braced his weight. His fracturing resolve cracked under Gabriel’s vilification of _his angel_. Crowley could have maintained his frayed composure, if he had been the only one on the receiving end of the ire. Using the shift of his position to his advantage, Crowley swung. Right hook connected with the smug jaw.

Hell broke loose.

Gabriel staggered back, and grinned. It wasn’t pleasant. Fists came up, his wide swing catching only air as Crowley ducked. The air was forced from his lungs from the shoulder that connected to his stomach, the tackle sending him back into a bookshelf.

“Stop, stop! No!” His voice was panicked, but ineffectual. Aziraphale jumped to his feet, but the blanket tangled in his legs, and his balance was lost. He crashed to the floor, disoriented.

Crowley seized the advantage of the dazed Archangel, and jammed a knee painfully into his chest. A harsh grip was twisted into the blue/grey scarf, as his fist connected twice with Gabriel’s face.

A harsh jab caught the demon in his throat, the force of Gabriel’s strength dislodging Crowley from atop him. He was there the instant that the demon fell back against another shelf, a kick cracking into ribs. He drew the leg back to repeat the assault, but his foot was caught.

With the Archangel unbalanced, he lifted a leg and kicked forcefully in his sternum, sending his back crashing to a tabletop. He was on Gabriel in an instant, his fist slamming into his nose. Bone cracked, blood splashing. The next punch splintered wood.

Rolling from under the second descent of fist, Gabriel took advantage of his bent frame. Fists crashed down on Crowley’s upper spine. Again, he kicked the demon, his foot connecting to the side of his head.

He was dazed from the blow, blood blurring his vision, but he managed to raise an arm to block a landed fist. It gave him a minute amount of time to shake off the creeping darkness. Crowley bellowed a war cry that would have made William Wallace proud, and caught Gabriel in the middle again. His forward momentum carried them both into another shelf. Bleeding and split knuckles descended on his face again. Crowley didn’t stop – he wanted the Archangel indistinguishable.

The library shook with thunder. Michael tugged at the lapels of their coat. Utter exasperation as they bent, and pulled the fallen angel to his feet. Their path around scattered books and pages was lithe. Their voice was a sharp sound. “Gabriel.”

Sheets were draped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he scrambled less gracefully behind Michael. When they paused, Aziraphale swept by. No concern was given for his own safety as he placed himself very nearly into the altercation. His fingers curled around an arm that was drawn back, prepared to descend again. “Anthony, _please stop!_”

Oscar had followed frantically behind Aziraphale, his whine reflecting worry when the angel put himself too close to the fight.

A gaze that was fully reptilian lifted to blue eyes that glistened with unshed tears. His heart dropped, and Crowley scrambled to his feet. With a grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders, Crowley propelled him back several paces from Gabriel. He stood between the Archangel and Aziraphale. Oscar stood beside Crowley, hackles raised defensively.

Gabriel climbed to his feet, and tugged his bloodied and wrinkled wool coat into place.

“We were under strict instructions that no harm was to come to the two of them,” Michael’s voice was a sharp reminder.

“The demon put his hands on me first.” He straightened his scarf.

“You knew he would. Yet here you are. The Almighty has said that _no harm_ befall them.”

A gold letter was withdrawn from an inner coat pocket, and flicked to Crowley’s feet. “I’ll remember this, demon.” Gabriel sneered at Aziraphale. “I’ll see you back in Heaven, Michael.” He vanished in a puff of purple smoke.

Michael turned to Crowley and Aziraphale. “_Put some clothes on_.” Then, factually. “Nice bedroom you have.” And then they were gone in a plume of grey smoke.

Crowley turned immediately to Aziraphale, gripping his shoulders once more. It was a thorough examination he took, assessing for any injuries. “Aziraphale, are you alright?”

He touched fingertips whisper-light to Anthony’s cheek. “I’m fine, Anthony.” Aziraphale tried for a tone of irritation, but his breath trembled. “I thought you were going to kill him.” His thumb traced lightly along bottom lip, healing the small cut. The large laceration along cheekbone mended beneath his palm.

“That was the plan.” He gripped Aziraphale’s hand, and pressed a kiss to the ridge of knuckles. Ribs protested in pain, and his breath sawed harshly out of his lungs as he bent to pick up the invitation.

While he quietly read, Aziraphale focused his attention on mending fractured bones, and closing broken skin. He paced around Anthony, hands caressing as Aziraphale assessed him. “You shouldn’t have done that, Anthony.”

Crowley glanced sharply up at Aziraphale when he stood in front of him once more. “I will _not _let him talk to you like that.” Yellow eyes that weren’t quite as demonic any longer met blue. “I guess we should consider that his RSVP.” He held the invitation out to Aziraphale.

There was screeching and laughter in Hogback Wood.

“You can’t get me, Brian! I’m the Martian!” This was from Pepper, who glared at the boy in question.

“I can too, Pepper! Bat boys can get anybody they want. Isn’t that right, Adam?”

Adam, the Prime Minister, was settled back in his chair.

“Actually, Brian, you can’t get the Martian. She has a laser gun.” Wensleydale was the mad scientist that had created Bat Boy. He held a graphic calculator as his scientific instrument.

Leaves crunched underfoot, and the man with the International Express emerged from bushes. “Are you guys Them?”

Four young faces and a lazy Dog looked up at the man.

“Got four letters, here. Says they’re for Them.” He walked over to Adam, who was soon joined by Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian.

Excitedly, envelopes were torn open while the clipboard was held out to Adam. “Need your signature, your Lordship.”

“I’m the Prime Minister.”

They were taking their tea in the garden when the International Express man approached around the corner of their bungalow. “Nice place here. I use to play in a garden like this at my grandmother’s when I was a kid.”

Madame Tracy returned her cup to the saucer, her expression polite. “Yes?”

Mr. Shadwell grunted.

“Letter for you both, ma’am.”

Madame Tracy placed the letter alongside her tea, then signed her name. “Triplets? Well done, you.” She smiled up at his bewildered expression as he backed away.

“Well? What’s it say, Jezebel?”

The envelope was torn open. The invitation was gold, with the most peculiar ethereal glow.

_You are mandatorily invited to the wedding of Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, and Anthony Janathony Crowley._

“_Janthony?_” She continued reading.

_Date: 22 May, 2021_

_Time: 4.00 pm_

_Venue: The Garden of Eden_

_Reception to follow._

“Oh, Mr. S., you won’t believe the good news! They’re getting married!” She waved the invitation about excitedly.

“What are you goin’ on about, woman?” He scowled over his tea at her.

“Mr. Aziraphale and his… _Crowley_, are getting married!” Madame Tracy was over the moon in her delight.

He frowned into his tea, and murmured under his breath so that she wouldn’t hear, _“Great Southern Pansy.” _Now, he spoke up. “What of it?”

“They’re requesting our attendance.” She placed the invitation lovingly aside, and took a sip of tea.

“_What?_” He scowled more fiercely. “Oh, I will nae be attendin’ tha’. I’d rather slouster with a serpent.” He was quite convincing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	19. Love not the pieces of a person, but the whole of who they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Retired Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell sat in the front row, his arms folded across his chest, glowering angrily. He had fought to remain home, but he had been wrenched through time and space and brought here against his will. He was not pleased, at all.

Aziraphale was hyperventilating. His breathing was quick and shallow, and he was pacing near a pond that was the purest shade of crystal blue. The three were isolated, providing privacy to the panicking angel. His hands were restless, wringing together. “Oh, this is a _complete_ nightmare. Why would She invite them?” His tone had taken on a note of hysteria as he swept a hand out, gesturing frantically in the direction that the ceremony was to take place. A multitude of mishaps could occur. He paused, palm pressing to his chest. White wings drooped, feathers sweeping over lush grass. The fight was a nightmarish loop through his thoughts, and his wings folded around him.

Anathema exchanged a worried glance with Madame Tracy, a wordless question of, _should I get Crowley?_

“My dear, I’m sure that everything will be just fine. But if you don’t stop your fussing, you will rumple your beautiful coat.” Tracy _tsked_ quietly, and stroked a calming hand between the base of wings.

His hands fell to his side with a worried groan, and he opened himself up once more. “_Oh_, I do hope Anthony doesn’t find himself in another kerfuffle with Gabriel.” God would be here. She would protect Anthony. _Right?_

Anathema’s tone was reassuring. “I’ve instructed Newt to keep an eye on him and make sure he behaves.”

The insincere smile he flashed was brittle, his hands resuming their wringing. “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t believe the poor boy stands any chance.”

Anathema clasped one of the angel’s hands between both of her own. “Do you love him?”

There was no hesitation, “Yes, _of course_.”

“Then the rest doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale’s aura was typically green and pink with tendrils of orange and gloomy grey, all encapsulated within an undulating, molten gold shell. And as she reassured him, the grey that had overtaken the angel’s beautiful colors receded.

Newton, Oscar (in a black bowtie), and Crowley stood near the tree that had started it all. Heaven and Hell were separated by an aisle that was draped with a pristine, white carpet. The plants were verdant, the flowers a kaleidoscope of colors.

Brian and Wensleydale sat in the front row with Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, Elfie cradled ever so carefully in Wensley’s arms. Brian was busy making funny faces at her, and they both delighted in her giggles.

“_Do you think any of ‘em would notice if I took a feather? Be bloody wicked to have._” Brian glanced to the Other Side, his attention falling on Dagon, who sneered threateningly at him, as if they knew his intentions.

“Actually, I think that would be a terrible idea.”

Crowley’s gaze was restless behind the security of his sunglasses. His expression was neutral, his hands clasped together before him. Ebon wings were folded behind him. The demon never thought, in a million years, that he would be standing in the Garden again. His gaze shifted to the impossibly high wall, and _he was drawn to the blinding light and warmth, and had slithered closer. “Well that went down like a lead balloon.” He had expected to be dismissed, or to be on the receiving end of Heavenly contempt. Crowley had found quite the opposite. “I gave it away!” He had aimed for sarcasm, but found that his voice held reassurance, assuaging the angel’s blatant worry. And as he had given voice to his own concerns, the sweet angel hadn’t scoffed and reminded him that demons were incapable of doing the right thing. _

“Oy. Don’t put any of that shit on the Bentley, or you’ll not live to regret it.” Newton’s eyes were wide as they shifted to Crowley, and he swallowed uncomfortably. His attention flicked back to the horde of black winged beings that looked so out of place in gold gilded chairs that were accented with pale pink cushions.

A surreptitious glance at his watch – 4.10. He groaned inwardly. They were late. Crowley could think of a plentitude of other things that he could be doing in this moment. _We should have just exchanged vows in bed, and been done with it_. An exasperated sigh, and his wings stretched briefly behind him.

“_Is Satan here_?” Newt’s voice was quiet and conspiratorial.

“_Wot? _Are you--does it bloody well _look_ like Satan is here?”

“I-I just... thought he’d look like everyone else.”

“Therein lies the error of your ways. Leave the thinking to Anathema. Thank God kids get their intelligence from their mother.” His gaze swept out to the denizens of Heaven and Hell, and fell upon Gabriel. His upper lip curled in a sneer, and his shoulders rolled back. …_even an angel who is so fucking **pathetic** he can’t get off his stupid, fat ass to do his God given job. _The crude gesture he made with his left hand was subtle, though the threatening stretch of black wings drew attention to him. As far as demonic glares went, Crowley’s was quite fierce, daring the Archangel to place one toe out of line. Shamelessly, he mouthed _I swear to God, I will fuck you up at my own wedding._

Knuckles cracked as his hands fisted, body shifting towards the edge of his seat. His anger consumed him as the lesser, lowlife demon threatened _The Archangel Fucking Gabriel _in front of his subordinates.

Sandalphon’s gaze shifted from the demon, to Gabriel. A hand was laid over a tense forearm. “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.”

Gabriel grinned knowingly and cut a curt glance across the aisle.

One moment, there was empty air – the next, God stood at the head of the wedding party, quite near to the reaching branches of the apple tree. They wore a sharp white linen pantsuit.

“We ready to do this?” Their hands clapped together, palms rubbing in anticipation. Every gaze was upon Them.

Crowley could only gape. He hadn’t seen Them since his Fall. Fingers twitched with the longing to reach out to Them. Reality was ice down his spine, his jaw clenching. Crowley only glowered more fiercely.

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Beelzebub couldn’t have appeared any more bored and Hastur sat quietly fuming.

Shadwell’s awed voice broke the tense silence. “_Oh_, aye, _He’s a wooman._”

God’s snap was a thunderous sound that started the processional music of _Make You Feel my Love _as sung by Adele.

Newton’s voice was quietly urgent, “_Y-your glasses_.”

Anathema was sweeping down the aisle as Crowley removed his glasses, which vanished in a puff of black smoke. It couldn’t be over quick enough.

His heart stuttered in his chest as Newt watched Anathema. She looked stunning. The pale purple of the floral gown was contrast against bronze skin. Full lips were painted a soft pink. Dark, silky curls were pinned up and accented with blush pink and yellow peonies. Fine wisps of hair framed her face. Newt wanted to tell her how lovely she looked – but he didn’t have a death wish. The smile she cast his way was full of affection.

Adam followed next. He wore cream trousers, a white shirt, pale gold suspenders, and a matching gold bowtie. The pillow that held the rings was white trimmed in pale gold. He bravely met the narrowed glare of lavender eyes, and offered a lopsided grin. Dog padded obediently beside him, his growl a low sound in his throat as they passed between both Gabriel and Beelzebub.

Pepper’s chin was held high as she followed several paces behind Adam. When she had first been asked to be the flower girl, she had been quite indignant. “_You just want me to be the flower girl because I’m a **girl**. I don’t subscribe to patriarchal norms._” And then Aziraphale had shown her what he would like her to wear, and it had easily swayed her into agreement. Petals of white, yellow, and pink were sprinkled happily around her. Her outfit perfectly matched Adam’s, even down to the white dress shoes. She was unfazed as she passed between Heaven and Hell… after all, she had bravely faced down War.

Crowley was quiet as he watched, a slight nod offered to both Adam and Pepper as they reached him. _This is ridiculous_.

Madame Tracy was dressed in a flowing, blush pink floral applique gown, with half sleeves and a matching floral hat. She walked arm in arm with Aziraphale. They paused at the far end of the aisle, and he drew in a shuddering breath. Every gaze was upon him now, and he could feel the heated glare of judgement, disgust, and loathing. His breath quickened, and fingers tightened on his bouquet. _I can’t do this, I can’t possibly do this_… Years of inadequacy were suffocating him. Every time he had ever been told that he was going to fail and that he wasn’t good enough crashed down around him. Every doubt that he had ever been on the receiving end of, every reminder that he was worthless consumed his thoughts.

His heart stuttered in his chest, his stomach twisted painfully, and his breath hitched to a stop. He could see the uncertainty reflected openly on Aziraphale’s face, and it was a blow that was worse than anything Gabriel could ever hope to deliver. _He’s having doubts… he’s going to run again. I won’t be able to survive it_. Fear choked him, and he took an involuntary step forward. Crowley wanted to go to him, to draw him into his arms and reassure him that they could face anything together. He drew to a sharp halt, realization dawning. _I have to have faith in him… in **us**. _If they were going to be together, Crowley couldn’t shelter him. Aziraphale was going to have to choose him with Heaven and Hell baring witness. As desperately as he wanted to go to him, he couldn’t make the choice for him. Crowley steeled himself. He hated that Aziraphale had to walk between angels and demons that not only didn’t want to be there but resented them. He knew he had to be their strength in that moment. The slight curve of his lips was quiet encouragement that he could do this. All he had to do was come to him, and they could be together.

Lavender eyes bore into him, and his wings fluttered. He wanted to disappear amongst white feathers. But then blue eyes found Anthony at last.

_Do you love him? _

_Yes, of course._

_Then nothing else matters_.

He didn’t realize that he had taken a step towards him, drawing nearer, as they had done for more than six thousand years. The disapproving stares fell away, and all that existed was Anthony, and his encouraging smile. Another step. He chose love.

_I’ve known it from the moment that we met,_

_No doubt in my mind where you belong._

His heart finally began to beat again. Every step that Aziraphale took solidified that nothing else mattered, and he was overwhelmed with the crippling love he felt for the angel. Every step that brought him nearer was a promise that Aziraphale would always be his. And when he reached the end of the aisle at last, Crowley went to him. Trembling hands framed beloved features, and their mouths met. This was why he was here. Not for Heaven, or Hell, or God – it was for Aziraphale.

His free hand gripped desperately to Anthony’s coat, his breath a shuddering exhale amidst the kiss that breathed life into the demon, who drew air for the first time since he had seen the hesitance in blue eyes. _We can overcome anything, as long as we have one another_. Brows touched, his voice a quiet whisper. “I love you, Anthony. I love you so much.”

Madame Tracy’s task was complete when Crowley came to them, and she quietly found her seat next to Shadwell. Her face was pale, and her hands shook. She didn’t believe that any of them had truly understood the depth of what this ceremony had meant, but she had seen the angels’ and demons’ expressions as she had walked alongside Aziraphale, and it left her feeling empty and cold.

A clearing of God’s throat drew Crowley and Aziraphale’s attention. The angel was nonplussed, the demon indifferent.

He drew Aziraphale to the head of the small wedding party, directly before the Almighty. For the first time, he allowed himself to finally _see _Aziraphale and it left him breathless. _He was radiant. _His suit was a Heavenly shade of cream, the buttons of his coat gold. His shirt was a shade of white that matched angelic wings. Golden bowtie was paired with Adam and Pepper’s. _Something blue _was a pale pocket square. White angel’s trumpet, yellow daffodil, blush peonies, and baby’s breath not only made up the bouquet that he held ever so delicately but was also a crown of daffodils, peonies, and baby’s breath nestled atop his halo of curls. “_You look beautiful_.” His tone was reverent as he finally gave voice to something he had wanted to tell him for the past six millennia, and was just as true now as it had been the first time he had stood next to him.

A blush stained his cheeks, his gaze dropping, though he peered coyly up through lashes at Anthony. Now that he was rejoined with his beloved, his anxieties and fear fell away, and was replaced with joy. Anathema took possession of his bouquet, and he turned fully to face him. He took a moment to drink in the sight of him. Anthony was dressed from head to toe in black, the wool extravagant and gleaming. The crimson rose, purple Scottish thistle, and baby’s breath boutonniere were a pop of color in the sea of obsidian. Left hand touched to his chest as he met yellow eyes once more, his sigh a dreamy exhale. “I knew you would look ever so dapper, my love.”

A sharp clap, reclaiming everyone’s attention. God spoke. “We are all gathered here today to bear witness to the union of Anthony Janthony–” Aziraphale tried to stifle his giggle, but failed miserably. He peered sheepishly up at Anthony, whose scowl was quite disapproving, his cocked eyebrow a silent question of _really?_ “— Crowley and Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate.”

The Almighty glanced up then, Their gaze sweeping over the faces of demons and angels. “Does anyone here have the balls to object to this union?”

Four children giggled.

The Almighty’s expression and tone dared someone to actually object. There was an unspoken threat that They _would _create a personalized version of Hell for the objector.

“The couple has prepared their own vows.” God redirected Their attention to Crowley and Aziraphale.

Crowley was drowning in his angel’s love, which smothered every scathing, hateful, and seething glare from both Heaven and Hell alike. He cradled both of Aziraphale’s hands in his own.

“It is hard to put into words everything you mean to me. You are the most beautiful being in existence. You are my happiness, my home, and my Heaven.”

God cocked an eyebrow, yet remained silent. They would give a pass today.

“Without you, I don’t know who or what I would be today. You are kind and good. It’s in everything you do. You care for others more than you care for yourself. You always do what is _ineffably_ right, consequences be damned. When we first met, I thought you were going to just be another smug angel looking down your nose at me. You didn’t, and that amazed me. When you told me what you had done for the humans, I knew. In all of Heaven and Hell, there was not another being like you. You surprised me and have done so every moment since. The day you agreed to marry me, everything seemed worth it, _even the Fall, _as if it were building up to this one pivotal moment.” Right hand rose, palm molding to the angel’s soft cheek. His thumb swept away a tear.

“I promise to be at your side always. To protect and love you no matter what this---“ he swept left arm out to encompass opposing Heaven and Hell, his gaze unwavering from Aziraphale. “—_lot _can devise to throw at us. I have and will continue to love you for everything you are. I promise to never hurt you, and I will do everything in my power to see you smile that perfect smile I love so much.” The pad of his thumb traced over lips that had curved up, a worshipful and brief caress. “I promise to take you to lunch, _on me_, whenever you feel the least bit peckish. I will share in everything this world has to offer with you. We will drink ourselves into oblivion and talk about philosophical nonsense until you get sick of hearing my voice. You are the only thing in the universe that has any meaning to me, and I am going to spend the rest of eternity making sure you know that.”

It took Aziraphale several moments to find his voice, his vision blurred with unshed tears as he met reptilian eyes. “Anthony… my savior and my best friend, you have been my strength since the moment I met you; my calm in the storm. You were the first being to ever make me feel like I mattered, the first to demonstrate kindness… the first to show _love. _Though you do your best, you cannot conceal just how selfless and merciful you are… and patient, _so very patient._” Right palm rested lightly on black fabric above the beat of his heart and like a gravitational force, he was drawn closer to him. Words alone could never express the depth of his love, though it was blatantly reflected in blue eyes that searched familiar and loved features. “You strove to make me laugh when everything felt undeniably hopeless. If that failed, you got me drunk. You have saved me from myself countless times. You made me realize that I shouldn’t blindly follow what I was told was inexplicably right.” His gaze flicked to the Almighty, guiltily, before shifting back to the yellow eyes he adored so very much. “Regardless of all obstacles that may arise, I swear to love you more and more with each passing moment, as I have done for the past six millennia. Wherever you may go, I will follow. I promise to be a shelter in the rain, and to place my faith eternally in you, Anthony. I am yours until the end of it all. And after my destruction, my love for you will linger on. We are on our own side, Anthony, _at last_, and I won’t let anyone take that from us.”

“The exchange of rings is a symbol of love eternal.” The Almighty leveled Their gaze on Adam, a polite expression as the child stepped forward. A slim golden band, circled with diamonds, was extended out to Crowley. “Anthony Crowley, please repeat after me. I give you this ring, as an eternal reminder of my love for you.”

Aziraphale’s left hand was cradled ever so gently in his palm. The hand was drawn up, lips sweeping over the ridge of knuckles. His arm was lowered only enough so that he could slip the band into place, nestled against the angel wings ring. “I give you this ring, angel, as an eternal reminder of my love for you. _Never_ forget just how much I love you.” He turned the hand over, yellow eyes watching blue as he bowed his head, and swept a kiss to the center of his palm. “From the moment I met you, I’ve only ever existed for you.”

His smile was a mixture of elation, embarrassment, and overflowing love. His breath was a shuddering exhale, and he sniffed delicately. Tears were warm as they spilled down his cheeks. He was rendered speechless.

“These rings are a reminder of not only who you are, and where you’ve been, but where you are going together. Aziraphale, please recite after me. I give you this ring, as an eternal reminder of my love for you.”

Aziraphale rested a hand to his own chest for a moment, trying to compose himself. His head bowed, an attempt to hide his tears. His breath hitched again, and his wings drooped slightly. “I love you so much Crowley, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

The small distance between them was closed. Aziraphale was folded into his chest, trying to be mindful of the floral crown, but Crowley needed to hold him then. Black wings shielded them as he rested cheek to the top of Aziraphale’s head. “_Shh, angel. It’s alright. We can leave, if you want.”_

He clung desperately to Anthony for strength, anchoring himself with the familiar scent of him, and the feel of his embrace. “No…” His voice was quiet, murmured against the black silk tie. “No, I’m alright.”

A quiet clearing of God’s throat, only loud enough for Aziraphale and Crowley to hear. A gentle reminder that they were not in the middle of their cottage.

Black wings fell away as Aziraphale collected himself. Before withdrawing a step, he laid a miraculous touch briefly to the crown that was missing several petals after their embrace.

Aziraphale sniffed delicately, and as he straightened his posture, he gave a little wiggle of his shoulders. Adam offered the ring out to him. “This ring,” His voice still quivered, though it had a determined edge. The thick band he slipped the length of Anthony’s fingers was midnight black, and encrusted with ebon diamonds. He slid the ring into place, then lifted his attention. “Shall be a reminder evermore of my love for you.”

"By the power vested in Me, by Me, I now pronounce you husbands.” God looked, expectantly, between the angel and demon. “Well, do your thing.”

Aziraphale gazed sheepishly up at him. The distance between them was closed when Crowley took a step forward. His hands rested on either side of his throat, thumbs sliding over jaw. A moment was taken, reveling in the love that gazed up at him from blue eyes. At last, he bowed his head, lips reuniting. His hands slid down, wrapping his arms around his waist, drawing him closer. It was more than a mere kiss. It was a silent promise that he would do everything within his powers to ensure Aziraphale’s happiness for eternity. His hold flexed tighter, a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.

Arms twined around Anthony’s neck, fingers tangling in red hair. The delicate touch of lips was not only affirmation of vows spoken aloud, but it conveyed just how grateful he was for Anthony’s years of infinite patience. His lips parted beneath Anthony’s, his sigh quiet contentment.

Gabriel’s audible retching sound was drowned out by Madame Tracy’s sobs, who was holding desperately to Shadwell’s arm.

Lord Beelzebub’s expression was carefully impassive, their attention on anything other than Aziraphale and Crowley. They **had **to be in attendance, but they most certainly didn’t have to endorse the ceremony.

It was difficult for him to break the kiss, but Crowley did at last. Their brows touched as yellow met blue. His caress along Aziraphale’s cheek was worshipful, thumb stroking against soft skin. “_My husband_.” He marveled in the way the angel’s eyes lit up, and couldn’t help but grin. A kiss brushed to forehead, and Crowley withdrew at last.

Aziraphale was overflowing with love, his face an open reflection of his bliss. _Husbands_. They had done it. Anthony’s grin was matched with his equally delighted smile. At last, he turned to Anathema to reclaim his bouquet.

Before he could turn away, she embraced him in a tight hug. “_Congratulations, Aziraphale_.” Her gaze flicked over his shoulder, to Crowley. His aura was the purest shade of white, but painted with splashes and serpentine streaks of pink and vibrant red. “I’m glad I was able to witness this.”

An elbow bumped into Crowley’s arm, drawing his attention to the Almighty. “Took you guys long enough. I heard what you did to Gabriel.”

His stomach became lead as he turned with great uncertainty to face Them. Were They upset? Crowley allowed himself a moment to memorize God’s face, and bask in Their presence. He was aware that this would be the last time he would be so near to Them. 

“He can be such a tight ass, good on you bringing him down a peg.”

“O-oh, ah, yeah…” Brows drew together, hands clasping awkwardly before him.

The Almighty gripped Crowley’s shoulder firmly. “I never stopped believing in you.” They didn’t give him time to respond. “Off you go, now. Salutaria to you both.”

Reptilian eyes watched Their expression as he stretched out an arm and plucked an apple that hung from the branches. Crowley turned to Aziraphale, lacing their fingers together. The angel’s expression was shock and endearment as he brought the fruit to his mouth and took a big bite. Around the mouthful, he inquired, “You want a bite, angel?”

“_Absolutely."_ They walked down the aisle, hand-in-hand, their attention devoted only to one another.

They turned to face Heaven and Hell alike. A flick of Their wrist, and a firm command of “dismissed.” They turned, and disappeared into the depths of the Garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	20. Eternal Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

The stars shone like glittering diamonds through the wisteria canopy. A long table stood at one end, almost overflowing with food. Off to another side was a large, round table, the cloth that draped it a pale shade of gold. Candles flickered in the gentle breeze. Quiet music wafted around them, its source of origin indeterminable.

Aziraphale returned to the table, a plate in hand. He had already distributed helpings of their hazelnut drizzled crepes cake to their human companions. He settled into his gold gilded chair, but took a moment to smile in anticipation at the crepes. Fork stabbed into a small piece, and he brought it up. “_Mm_.” It was an appreciative moan, eyes closing to relish the flavor. The angel wiggled in delight.

Crowley’s gaze was hungry as he watched him. With the side of knuckles to the underside of chin, he guided Aziraphale to face him. Mouths touched, tongue flicking out briefly to glide over bottom lip. He could feel the blush warm skin beneath his touch, and smiled. “I’ve been wanting to do that for _ages_.”

“There are _children _here.” Pepper’s voice was a disgruntled reminder.

Aziraphale was quite flustered, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “Our apologies, Pepper. We will endeavor to be more appropriate.”

Crowley interjected, his tone casual. “I didn’t agree to that.”

The quiet conversation of their friends flowed around him. It felt ever so wonderful. Another small bite was stabbed, though this time he held it up for Anthony. “They’re quite scrummy. You _must _try it, Anthony.” He ignored the exasperated expression, and when he made to question his choice of wording, Aziraphale fed him the bite. His husband looked quite put upon. “Still overrated pancakes?”

“You can’t be a _prude_ at a wedding, Pepper. They’re meant to be a party for love and the grown-ups kiss _a lot_, ‘least they do on the telly.” This was from Brian, who wore most of the hazelnut from the cake.

An arm draped along Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he leaned in. His breath was warm as it tickled earlobe, his mouth the gentlest of caress, “_I prefer tasting it on you_.”

The angel was almost instantly red in embarrassment, despite that Anthony’s tone had been too low for anyone else to hear. His tongue had gone dry with the promise in Anthony’s voice. Champagne was brought up, and he took a long drink.

Crowley’s grin was mischievous as he watched Aziraphale’s uncomfortable squirming. Fingertips traced shapes into the soft coat as he brought up his own flute of champagne.

Adam shoved away his empty plate. “Can we go exploring?” Without his parents in attendance, it was asked of his elders. The humans’ looked uncertain.

“Oh, yeah. Course. Don’t get eaten. Your parents may frown on that.” Crowley’s tone was casual.

The Them spoke over one another excitedly. “Are there eggstinct animals here?” Brian sounded hopeful.

“Actually, that wouldn’t make much sense if there were, Brian. We didn’t time travel.” Wensleydale was the voice of reason.

Adam rose, The Them following suit. “Let’s go see if we can find some dinosaur bones!”

Pepper’s voice was caught on the wind as they ran. “I call the first dinosaur claw we find!”

“Dinosaurs aren’t real!” Crowley shouted this at the kids’ retreating backs.

Newton looked devastated. “Dinosaurs aren’t real?”

With an elbow resting on the tabletop, and her chin in her palm, Anathema’s attention was devoted completely to the angel and demon. “Did either of you ever see the Library of Alexandria?”

Crowley’s head was light with champagne. “Are you kidding me? It’d been a while since I last saw him, and I found him camping out. Had to practically drag him out to get him some fresh air.”

Aziraphale sighed fondly. “Ah. The wealth of all human knowledge. Some of it was wrong. But it was a wonder to behold.” He felt warm from the alcohol, and Anthony’s nearness. Their chairs were practically touching with how closely Anthony had moved. Aziraphale rested his brow against the side of Anthony’s throat. “I just wish I had known of Caesar’s intentions…”

“Aaand there’s enough of that.” There was no room for morose thoughts tonight. Carefully, he untangled himself from Aziraphale. He protested, but Crowley stretched a hand out to him. “Come on, angel.” Before drawing him to his feet, Crowley swept a kiss first along the ridge of knuckles, then to inner wrist. He watched a blush bloom in his cheeks, and delighted that he could still cause such a reaction.

Aziraphale was guided to his feet. A hand touched to the center of Anthony’s chest, fingertips teasing over skin that was exposed from the loosened tie and few undone buttons. When he spoke, his voice was quiet with a hint of longing. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Crowley led the way to the open, grassy area beneath the canopy. He gave a light outward swing of Aziraphale, and as he was drawn back into his chest, Crowley snapped sharply with his free hand. The quiet music that enveloped them shifted, the song’s opening was bubbling notes that grew louder. Aziraphale’s right hand was guided to rest against his own chest, and held there, the left cradled in his hand lovingly to the side. Blood thundered in his ears, and his heart pounded harshly in his chest. Crowley would never admit it aloud, but in the moments that Aziraphale had been out wedding planning… he had been practicing.

Tension swept through him as he was swung out and cheeks that were already flushed from spirits darkened. “A-anthony… I don’t…” Blue eyes were uncertain as he met yellow. The tension ebbed as he was drawn into Anthony’s body, their movements an imperceptible sway. He could feel, rather than hear, the vibration of a hum in his chest.

Crowley’s thumb was a reassuring caress over knuckles as their swaying became a slow turning. A bow of his head touched their cheeks, his voice quiet as he murmured along with the words. He wanted Aziraphale to truly hear them. “_And Judgement taught us, that our hearts were wrong. But they’re the ones that we’ll look down upon._”

Aziraphale was enraptured in the moment, focusing ever so intently on Anthony’s quiet voice in his ear. His fingers flexed, gripping the hand a bit more tightly. A tip of his head allowed him to nuzzle his cheek against the rasp of stubble. He was unaware that their movements were no longer so slow. He was overflowing with love and was languishing in being so close to his husband.

Lips swept against the soft swell of cheek. “Do you trust me, angel?” Aziraphale’s breathy _yes_ was immediate, and his heart stuttered in his chest. There had been no hesitation on the angel’s behalf – he trusted him, and that meant more to Crowley than Aziraphale probably knew. _So let’s be sinners to be saints…_ The hand that Crowley held to his own chest was slid to rest on his shoulder, his own hold pressed to Aziraphale’s back, just beneath his arm. The music swelled, and as he extended his right – and Aziraphale’s left – arms to the side, he spun them into a waltz.

With Anthony’s guiding touch he was swept around the open area. His initial gasp was followed with an incredulous laugh. He watched the way Anthony’s jaw clenched minutely, and the way his brows drew slightly together in concentration. Though he had only ever done the Gavotte, he moved across lush grass as if they had done it before with Anthony’s lead. Aziraphale hadn’t believed that his heart could fill anymore with love, but it did then. He felt like they had stepped into a Jane Austen novel.

Angel and demon moved in tandem, their bodies in sync. His gaze lowered to blue, his slight smile lopsided. _Our hearts are too ruthless to break. _Every moment they spent together was better than the one before, but Crowley didn’t believe he would ever be as happy and **content **as he was then. He was doing what he truly loved – bringing the angel joy._ Let’s start fires for Heaven’s sake. _Nothing else in all the universe mattered. _But my world is only you_… They drew to a halt, and he took a moment to just _look _at Aziraphale. _I am so fucking lucky. Everything was stacked against us, yet here we are, husbands, and he loves me just as much as I love him. _With right arm raised, he turned Aziraphale in a slow spin, and when they faced one another once more, Crowley drew him in. Left palm slid down the length of spine, and with a forward press of his body, he lowered his angel into a dip that would have made Fred Astaire proud.

There was no tension in him, and when Anthony eased him back into a dip, Aziraphale remained relaxed. His head tipped, baring throat, his right hand resting lightly on left shoulder. Aziraphale felt ever so delicate, and it only made him melt all the more. Slowly, he was drawn back up, and pulled into Anthony’s chest, his right hand cradled between them. “_And if we’re sinners, it feels like Heaven to me._” Anthony murmured this as their brows touched. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his neck, gazing with adoration into his husband’s snake eyes. He felt **complete**.

Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand to his heart, an arm wrapping at the small of his back to hold him flush to his lean frame. Crowley held him, and swayed them ever so slowly, as the next song began. “I’ve been wanting to do that with you for _so long._” Fingers fisted into the cream fabric, his grip suddenly desperate. He wanted to preserve this moment. Yet, despite how perfect their reception had been, realism was ever present. Crowley wanted Aziraphale to have this beautiful, perfect moment, so he had locked away his cynicism. But Crowley was waiting… something was bound to happen, it was just a matter of when. And he had to be ready, for whatever it was. Bowing his head, he buried his face into the warm curve of Aziraphale’s throat. “What’s next, angel?”

Anathema leaned into Newt, resting her head on his shoulder, hiding how wet her cheeks had become. “I don’t know how anyone can compete with that.” Elfie was asleep in Newton’s free arm.

“Mr. S., _are you crying_?” Madame Tracy sounded concerned.

“Nae, woman, I’m just allergic to the flowers.” He turned away from her, affording him a moment to quickly swipe away the tears.

Blue eyes lit up, and he swept his fingers through red hair. “Alpha Centauri?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	21. One of the brightest stars in the night sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Aziraphale’s hand was held between Crowley’s and the gearshift. His expression was relaxed as they drove wordlessly down the peaceful, tree lined road. Queen was singing softly in the background. Crowley quietly murmured along with Freddie Mercury. “Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine precisely. I will pay the bill, you will taste the wine.”

Aziraphale was studying Anthony’s profile, a frown wrinkling his brow. “You don’t have to wear those, my dear husband.” He had grown quite accustomed while on their honeymoon, that Anthony hadn’t once felt the need to hide his snake eyes. Now that they were preparing to meet with their mortal friends, he was falling back into old habits.

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, his focus unnecessarily intent on the road. “I-I know…” 

“I understand why you are doing it but I just wanted to remind you that I love every part of you.”

If it hadn’t come from Aziraphale, he wouldn’t have believed it. In wordless appreciation, the hand that he held was raised, and turned, lips sweeping lovingly over the soft palm. And as they passed the Them bicycling down the road, Crowley gave two honks in greeting. 

“They’re out in the garden, and should return shortly.” Newton, who had been watching Doctor Who, sat back in his chair and redirected his attention awkwardly to the two celestial beings. “Did you guys wear space suits?”

Aziraphale was settled into the far right side of the sofa. Anthony had draped himself comfortably into his left side. A hand rested on the top of leather-clad thigh, his thumb sweeping over tautly drawn material. Cheeks pinked when Anthony pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. Chin lowered coyly, but Aziraphale still glanced back in his direction.

A fingertip traced lazily just above the pale blue collar. Newt’s words caught his attention, and Crowley’s head fell to the side. An eyebrow rose above the edge of dark lenses. “Oh, yeah, course. Course we did. We’ve had space suits since before the creation of humanity because we definitely needed them as we damn well bloody built the cosmos.”

The back door opened – a scrambling of feet, and then Oscar sat at Aziraphale’s feet, paws resting lightly on knees. “Oh! My sweet boy.” A palm laid to the top of his head, and he stroked back long ears. “I’ve missed you ever so much.” Aziraphale patted his lap, and Oscar jumped up.

Anathema paused in the threshold from the kitchen, carrying a tray of tea. “He was very well behaved, and had the most amazing manners. He was unbelievably good and patient with Elfie.” Newton unfolded himself from the chair, and hurried over to take the tray from her. Right hand molded to the swell of her noticeable belly.

Crowley’s brows shot up, and he peered over the rim of sunglasses. “Well that didn’t take long. A bit barefoot and pregnant of you, Anathema.” Long fingers stroked Aziraphale’s bicep through the thick fabric of his coat.

Her smile was mocking when flashed at Crowley, and she settled into the chair Newton left open for her. He had disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve their daughter. “I decided to go against the grain of my family. We’ve only ever had one endgame in mind. Preventing the apocalypse. Not super family oriented.” And though Anathema was young, she felt very old and very tired. There were still nights where she awoke in a sweat, fretting over the destroyed second prophecy. _What had it said? _Newt helped remind her why they had done it. Anathema would never want Elfie to be raised as she had. While she loved her mother, there had been the weight of the world on her shoulders since she could remember.

“How nice for you.” His tone was mildly bored.

Aziraphale gave a gentle, admonishing squeeze to Anthony’s leg. The smile he offered Anathema was apologetic. “What he _means_ to say is, congratulations.”

High, delighted giggles preceded her. Little stomping feet, and she zig zagged over to her mother and hugged to her lap. Newton had chased her into the room with playful growling sounds.

Oscar gave an excited yip, his tail wagging. Aziraphale’s sigh was a wistful, “_Oh_, she has gotten _so big._” A hand fluttered to his chest. The little girl peered cautiously up at him with big, chocolate brown eyes.

Anathema laid a hand to dark, silky curls. Her heart filled whenever she stared down at features that were a blend of her and Newt. “My little elf. This is Uncle Aziraphale, and Uncle Crowley.” A hand swept out lightly, and Anathema gave the gentlest of guiding touches towards the angel.

Elfie paused, eyes wide as she looked from Aziraphale, to Crowley. Familiarity tugged at her, drew her to red hair and dark glasses. A stumbling few steps, and she clung to one very long leg.

Internally, he melted when she fell against him, looking up with pleading eyes. A curl of his lip in a sneer. “Ah, no. G-go see the angel. Kids are his sort of thing.” But she was having none of that. Once she had found her footing again, she struggled to climb into his lap. A beat of a moment, and he relented. Crowley settled her into his left side, and was very determined to _not _look over at Aziraphale’s starry-eyed expression.

Aziraphale’s chest was light with the love that filled it as he watched Elfie remove black sunglasses. And then, a momentary stab of pain. _Not kids. You can’t kill kids._

Brown eyes lifted from dark lenses, and met snake eyes. A little hand touched to his cheek, her eyes widening. “’lello.”

“Yellow. Yes. Very good.”

Elfie parroted him, “’lello.”

He spoke slowly, his mouth’s movements exaggerated so that she could follow. “_Ye_llow.”

Slower, “y’low.”

Oscar turned his attention to demon and child, padding closer so that he could sniff at Elfie’s hair. She giggled delightedly, little fingers petting soft fur as she stated rather factually, “Oscar.”

There was a knocking at the door, and Newt disappeared momentarily. When he returned, he was followed by Them, who crowded on the floor in front of angel and demon. Pepper placed her red backpack beside her, and Brian shoved a few crisps into his mouth. Wensleydale was the first of Them to speak, ever so polite. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Crowley, and Mr. Aziraphale. How was your honeymoon?”

Brian interjected, while wiping a hand on his shirt. “Did you bring any souvenirs?”

Pepper’s elbow was sharp in Brian’s ribs. “Don’t feed into commercialism.”

Dog crawled frantically into Adam’s lap, yipping at Oscar, who had jumped down to play. “Dog… it’s just a puppy.”

Aziraphale had to look away to resolutely hide his grin. Anthony had quite laboriously mulled over what to bring back to the children, though of course, Anthony would never admit that aloud.

“You can’t buy these in a shop.” Crowley had found that he was quite good at picking out gifts. With a hand braced supportively to Elfie’s back, his other crammed into his tight pocket. A shifting of his position, and he attempted to wriggle his hand free unsuccessfully. Still holding the child, Crowley stood. The toddler squealed, and threw her body back, arms raised, her shriek of excitement a shrill sound. Rocks scattered across the floor as he jerked his other hand up, and caught Elfie, who was squirming in delight as she was held aloft. The Them scrambled for the bits of space debris. His heart hammered in his chest with how close he had come to dropping the kid. “Ah, y-yeah… there ya… _go._” Crowley collapsed back onto the couch, legs stretched over Aziraphale’s lap and crossed at the ankles. Elfie busied herself with returning the demon’s sunglasses back over snake eyes, then tugged at the thin grey scarf. As she brought it to her mouth, Crowley tickled her belly, and grinned when she erupted into happy laughter.

Adam rolled his rock in his palm – it was iron nickel, and flecked with gold, as well as yellow and green crystals. ”What are they?”

With his hands folded atop Anthony’s shins, Aziraphale watched him with open adoration. He sighed contentedly as his husband’s wall of indifference lowered, allowing the humans a glimpse of Anthony’s kindness.

“Eh, just little bits of meteorite – angel, why don’t you tell them about our honeymoon?”

He didn’t need to be encouraged twice. “_Well_…” Aziraphale regaled them with their adventures to Alpha Centauri, distant nebulas, and beautiful stars. Wensleydale exuberantly interjected with questions, soaking in the first-hand experience of life outside of their small planet. “And then, my wonderful husband said that he missed Oscar.” Aziraphale’s expression was open, unapologetic love but his lips also quirked in a small, teasing smile.

Crowley pointed a finger at the angel. “I most definitely did _not _say that.” His tone held the proper amount of indignation required of such a slanderous statement.

Adam had remained quiet and thoughtful as Aziraphale spoke. Now, however, he gave voice to something that the other three of his gang were likely wondering. “Did you meet any aliens?”

“Yeesss, we did.” It was an unconvincing statement, but the children didn’t seem to notice. They sat with rapt attention as Crowley continued. “We met an entire fleet of aliens that looked like… like dinosaurs with metallic carapaces. They had long, bony points coming off of their heads, a-and... we had to help… recalibrate their space equipment…” He looked helplessly to Aziraphale, who shook his head, making it apparent that Crowley was on his own with the story.

“Mr. Crowley, I thought you said dinosaurs weren’t real.” Wensleydale was a knowing reminder.

“Yes, I did. Do you remind your teacher when they’ve forgotten to assign homework? Doesn’t matter… you’ve seen Jurassic Park?”

Brian sat forward, intent. “Yeah! It was _wicked_ brilliant.”

“My man.” Crowley high-fived Brian. “Alright, so… think raptors.”

Newton had looked up now, and stared dubiously at Crowley. It sounded suspiciously familiar, yet… after everything that had happened, he couldn’t outright refute it.

Adam was enthused. “Metal dinosaur aliens – I wrote a story almost just like that!”

No one had noticed that just outside, the sky had gone abysmally dark. A screech of the television that had been quietly playing adverts pierced through their conversation. The news woman’s voice was factual. “There are disturbing reports coming in from across the world. Social media accounts have caught video evidence of what people are describing as demons rising from the Earth. The supervolcano under Yellowstone National Park has erupted, devastating most of the western United States. A megatsunami caused by a massive landslide off the coast of Hawaii has wiped out the entirety of the Pacific coastline. Additional odd weather patterns have been reported globally. Stay tuned for addit—“ The screen went black, and every gaze fell upon Adam.

Both hands were held in front of him. “Don’t look at me.”

A shift in the air, and Anathema’s head fell back, as if she could see through the ceiling to the outside world beyond. “G-guys?” Fear was an acidic taste on her tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	22. For my money, the real big one is all of us, against all of them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

An ear-splitting shriek of metal. Elfie covered her ears and screamed. Crowley held her protectively to his chest. No one moved for a moment. Crowley was the first to his feet, and he ushered the toddler into her mother’s arms. Long legs ate the distance to the window, and he twitched the curtain to the side. “No.” _You can’t be doing this. Not now. _As everyone was crowding around the window to look outside, Crowley slid between Newton and Aziraphale and crossed to the door. By the time he had reached the grass, he was running, the gate door evaporating all together with a hasty snap. “What the fuck are you doing, Gabriel?”

“Anathema, Newton… take the kids. Go hide.” Blue eyes were wide with panic, the angel taking only long enough to encourage the mortals to seek whatever shelter they could find. Aziraphale wasn’t far behind Anthony. His hands clasped together before him, fingers wringing wretchedly. He stood just to the right and behind his husband.

The Bentley was an unrecognizable heap of metal. Gabriel stood atop the wreckage as if it were a prized beast he had conquered. He was resplendent in gold and white armor that was reminiscent of Roman soldiers. He loosely held a long, sinister looking spear. He didn’t address the question. Gabriel waited.

The ground trembled beneath their feet, and the sky lit with flashes of lightning.

Crowley turned Aziraphale to face him, his grip biting painfully into his shoulders. “Aziraphale, listen to me. Go inside.” Crowley shook him then, gently, but trying desperately to make him understand the severity of their situation. “_Please. _Go protect the humans. I—“

Aziraphale grabbed his forearms, and glared up at him. He was hurt and terrified. “How dare you. I will not.”

Crowley snarled in exasperation, and turned back to Gabriel. He was joined by Hastur, Beelzebub, and Dagon, and respectively, Uriel and Sandalphon, both of whom wielded swords aflame with celestial fire. 

Flanked behind them within the confines of the garden, were four mortal children and a once formidable Hellhound. They were vastly outnumbered.

Gabriel looked absolutely delighted. He grinned widely as he raised the spear to point its deathly tip at the demon. “You and I have some unfinished business.”

Crowley shrugged out of Aziraphale’s grip, and as he stepped forward, he tugged off his coat and tossed it aside. “I would fucking say that we do.”

Aziraphale stretched a hand out, his touch fleeting as it swept against his back. “Anthony, I believe that they have us at a bit of a disadvantage.”

Crowley desperately wanted to reassure him, to tell him that everything was going to be fine. But Aziraphale was right – they were at a disadvantage. And as much as he didn’t want to, Crowley felt responsible for the lives of their human friends. They couldn’t run from this fight. “Aziraphale, I—“ Another crack of lightning silenced his apology.

Michael stood just beneath Gabriel, their voice firm. “Gabriel. This ends **now**.”

It was a leaping step off the car, and he stood before Michael, towering menacingly over them. His voice was a threatening growl. “Fall in line, Michael.”

“This goes against God’s will.” Their chin lifted defiant, undaunted as grey eyes met angry lavender.

“To Hell with God’s will.” The spear lifted and pierced too easily through Michael’s sternum. Trembling fingers touched to the spear, their expression a flit of confusion, betrayal, shock. But underneath it all was all encompassing pain.

A jerk of the spear pulled it free, and as Michael collapsed, they dissolved into grey particles that dissipated before touching Earth.

“Huh. I didn’t think the Spear of Destiny would work on my kind.”

The realization that this was it, they would not likely survive this, was a painful ache in his chest. Everything they had fought for… it had been futile, after all. _We are fucked. _He turned back to Aziraphale, seeking courage. Crowley framed his face with large hands, a moment taken to familiarize himself with beloved features. And as his thumb stroked along the curve of cheekbones, a hasty kiss was pressed first to lips and then to brow. “I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale clung to Anthony’s left hand, the wedding band biting beneath his hard grip. “We’ll fight them together.” He couldn’t say the words. It felt too much like a goodbye, and Aziraphale wasn’t ready to say goodbye. His heart ached, yet he pushed the pain aside. If they were to come through this, he couldn’t fall apart. Not until they reached the other side, unscathed.

“It’s just you and me, demon.” His tone had an almost sing-song quality to it. He leveled his spear once more, though this time, at the pale haired angel. “Sandalphon, restrain Aziraphale. Ensure that he cannot interfere.”

Sandalphon’s chuckle was a malicious, nasally sound as he stepped menacingly forward. Oscar growled low in his throat, and darted past Crowley.

“Oscar, no!” It was a strangled cry as Aziraphale stepped forward, but it was too late. Teeth clamped on the Archangel’s calf, and shook. Sandalphon spun, foot connecting with the Corgi’s ribs, sending him careening into the low brick wall.

Gabriel was bearing down on them, now, and his gaze flicked from Sandalphon, to the most imminent threat. Crowley’s back was to Aziraphale, and by the time he was aware that his angel had moved, he was just out of reach. It was a startling burst of panic that was immediately shoved away. Gabriel’s instructions had been to subdue, not harm.

Anger simmered inside of him. _How dare you_. He was closing the distance between him and Sandalphon with angry stomps. Eons of fear and hurt spurred him forward. The memory of Sodom and Gomorrah pushed to the forefront of his thoughts, the pain of losing Lot’s wife and unborn babe a catalyst for his fury. “Not my dog, _you bitch._” Aziraphale swung, right fist connecting with mouth. Of all the angels in Heaven above, Sandalphon was the most detested… the one who found joy in causing pain and suffering.

Eyebrows shot up, and Crowley could only gape at Aziraphale for a moment. He wanted to tell Aziraphale how _badass _he was, but Gabriel was still baring down on them.

Blood stained the back of his hand as he swiped it across his mouth. Thunder cracked as Sandalphon turned, furious, back to Aziraphale, who was shaking the pain out of his fist. Instructions for a simple restraint fled. He couldn’t interfere if he was a bleeding and broken mass on the pavement. His sword rose threateningly.

The Corgi stood on unsteady paws, and gave a hard shake to reorient himself. Two leaping steps, and a lunge…

The Earth quaked beneath him as Sandalphon was knocked to the ground, framed by two gigantic paws on either side of him. There was a collective gasp, and everyone fell inert, as if time had stopped. Drool pooled from large teeth that were bared in a snarl. Pebbles danced over gravel as The Behemoth growled, the ground quivering with the sound. Sandalphon futilely stretched a hand out for his sword. A cry of pain issued forth from him as the no-longer-Corgi sunk teeth into the Archangel’s middle. Like a dog with a bone, The Behemoth aggressively shook Sandalphon several times, tossed him into the air, and caught him whole. Bones cracked as he chewed twice, then swallowed. A satisfied belch dislodged the Archangel’s sword from his teeth, and it clattered to the ground.

Crowley bent, and retrieved the discarded sword. A swing of it, and infernal fire consumed the blade. His smile was crooked when he turned, marveling, to Aziraphale. “You were right about the dog.”

“This changes nothing. Uriel, Beelzebub – get the beast. Hastur, Dagon – I don’t care how you do it, but bring the traitor to his knees.” Gabriel returned his attention to Crowley. “That leaves you all to me.”

“Take care of him, Oscar.” A last, lingering look was cast to his husband, the other half of his soul, and then he was charging Gabriel. Metal sparked as it collided with the downward swing of his sword. A twist of his body to the side, a slice through vest and shirt baring untouched skin beneath. _Too close._ Crowley didn’t have long to recover. He was at a disadvantage.

Gabriel lunged, sword and spear meeting again. His arms were jerked up as the spear was deflected. The smell of burnt flesh, and agony raced up nerve endings. His breath was a sharp inhale through grit teeth as the Hellfire tipped sword sliced up inner bicep. Skin charred around the gaping wound.

The sword was drawn back up defensively, and though he jumped back, Gabriel plunged ahead with the lowered spear. With the wall encircling the garden at his back, Crowley had nowhere to retreat. There was no time to bring his weapon down. Fingers curled instinctively around the sharp end of the spear, and he forcefully jerked it away from its path towards his abdomen. Gabriel grinned as he wrenched it nearly free of the demon’s grasp. His blade came down hard, wooden handle splintering, leaving the spear no longer than his own sword. Crowley stumbled to the side, opening the retreat at his back. Crowley was forced to take a moment to collect himself. His knees were weak from pain, his hand throbbing worse than if he had dipped it in molten lava. Trembling fingers curled protectively over the wound that was sliced to the bone, the scent of his burnt flesh fill his nostrils. His jaw dropped with gasped breaths. “_Fu—_“ Crowley fell to the side, the shortened spear a whisper of air where he had been standing.

Open space met the thrust of his blade, and Gabriel shouted in frustration as he stumbled. A quick twist of his body, and as Crowley stepped behind him to plunge flaming sword into the Archangel’s spine, the blades kissed with a zing of metal.

Oscar was a giant protector in front of the otherwise defenseless angel. Uriel glanced over at Beelzebub. _Wars weren’t meant to be avoided_. Prince of Hell and Archangel wielded swords of, respectively, Hellfire and Celestial flames as they approached the Behemoth. A snarling growl from the beast as they circled him. A bat of an enormous paw sent Uriel flying, and though they landed on their back, they rolled and bounded back to their feet. Beelzebub slunk from behind, and plunged their blade into a large side. The Behemoth roared.

Aziraphale fell back a step as the demons approached him, his hands held, empty and defenseless, before him.

“_NOW!_” Adam’s voice was the shriek of a general that had been preparing for this very battle their whole lives.

Three additional heads popped just high enough over the ledge of the wall to brace their arms to the top of bricks. Each child was armed with a squirt gun obtained from the pack slung over Pepper’s shoulder. She and Wensleydale had been researching how to fight demons, should the need arise. It had risen.

Crowley’s back crashed to the crumpled heap of his Bentley, bent and broken metal slicing skin. Muscles strained as he caught the descent of the spearhead with his sword. Gabriel had strength and size on his side, but he lacked imagination. Lavender eyes were fanatical as he pressed the blade closer to Crowley’s throat. Injured fist jabbed out, nose shattered, and the Archangel relented. A snakeskin boot connected with sternum, and Crowley kicked him back several paces. His gaze shifted hastily to Aziraphale. Gabriel exploited the weakness. A heavy fist connected to the back of his skull, and he stumbled. Before he could recover, Gabriel hit him again. His vision went black, and Crowley collapsed to his knees. A harsh kick to the kidneys felled the demon, sunglasses scattering as cheek met gravel, and Gabriel lifted his spear triumphantly. 

Thunder cracked and lightning flashed. From a distant stockroom of the International Express Company, Aziraphale manifested his sword. There was no uncertainty when he wielded it then. Flames licked down the length of the blade, and when the Spear of Destiny jabbed down, it was deflected. Aziraphale swung the blade back up, and positioned himself between the Archangel and his husband. Gabriel paused when Aziraphale spoke, as if he were granting one last prayer to the angel. “God knows I’m no saint,” And though Aziraphale was buying time, he couldn’t deny that he relished facing down the being that had been a source of trauma for as long as he could recall. “But I don’t think I’m more of a sinner than any other man.” Wings unfurled behind him, and Aziraphale leapt forward.

Gabriel’s laughter was tinged with mania as he parried the blow. “God’s Judgement has left much to be desired.” The upward, slicing arc of his spear met air as Aziraphale stumbled back. It was a shark’s predatory grin when he advanced on the angel. The air whistled with the swing of blades.

He was on the defensive, biding time so that Anthony could recover. Spear and sword met again, and Aziraphale’s gaze flicked hastily to Anthony, who was struggling to his knees with the crutch of a weapon that had lost its infernal flame.

When weapons met again, Gabriel took a page out of the demon’s book. A large fist slammed into the side of the angel’s head, and he stumbled. Gabriel paced behind him – a cat toying with his mouse. A slash of his spear severed left popliteal tendon, and Aziraphale collapsed to his knees. As he circled back around the fallen angel, Gabriel shifted his attention to Crowley. “Are you watching, demon?” The Spear of Destiny glinted maliciously in the flash of lightning.

“**_NO!_**” It was a frantic prayer. The world swum around him as Crowley rose.

Blue lifted to apologetically meet snake eyes, his gaze unwavering as the spear punctured his chest. Regret was chased away by the severity of the pain… he was burning from the inside, and the scream that clawed at his throat was given life.

A jerk of the spear pulled it free, but that was as far as Gabriel managed. His sword bit deep into the Archangel’s forearm. As the spear fell from his grasp, Crowley claimed possession before it could hit the earth. Tears danced in his eyes, but his aim was true as he jammed the sharp point through Gabriel’s throat. Crowley had dispatched Gabriel in a single, fluid movement, and as Aziraphale collapsed back, Crowley caught him.

“Oh, God, no.” A trembling hand molded to a soft cheek, wet with both of their tears. “_Aziraphale?_” It was a hopeless question. He was too late. Blue eyes were empty as they stared heavenward, and the once white wings that lay limp around them were stained red. “_Please, God, no…_ _I thought we had more time…_” And as Crowley hugged Aziraphale to him, his thoughts raced through a history of six thousand years. Six _thousand_ years of flirtatious smiles, stolen glances.

_It’s ineffable. It is beyond understanding._

His thoughts stuttered over the bookshop, flames devouring beloved books. The first time he had lost Aziraphale. Crowley had given up then. “_I can’t…_” It was a mournful whisper. Already, the angel was fracturing in his embrace, withered dandelion petals that slipped through his fingers. “_I c-can’t… I can’t…_” He couldn’t go on, not without Aziraphale. Without Aziraphale… there was nothing. _He _was nothing. And a reality without Aziraphale was not something that Crowley could imagine. And so, for what felt like the first time, Crowley chose his own Fate. He chose not to exist. His wordless yell was an anguished sound that he screamed at the Almighty above.

“_Are you watching, demon?_"

Crowley whipped through the fabric of time with the precision of a snake’s attack. One moment, he was too far away, helpless. The spear descended. He manifested with a pained scream, and as he caught what had been meant for Aziraphale, it morphed into a shout of rage. The blade pierced through bone and muscle, and stopped only when it erupted from his back. Gabriel grinned as he twisted the spear. Crowley reached up and gripped the Archangel’s forearms, and as his hands erupted in flames from the deepest depths of Hell, Crowley pulled Gabriel, and the spear, into him. Fire raced up Gabriel’s arms, and as lavender eyes melted, Crowley smiled. It was a smile that could have been interpreted as satisfaction of being Gabriel’s downfall, or because he had the knowledge that Aziraphale would finally be safe.

Stark emptiness devoured love, the emotion stripped from him the moment Anthony’s life was extinguished. A hand extended, reaching, pleading, but Anthony was ashes in the wind.

The world turned white for a flash of a moment. God had arrived. Silence hung heavy and tangible in the air. Their voice shook the world.

“THIS ENDS NOW.”

Oscar had returned to his Corgi state, healed, head resting in Aziraphale’s lap. His whimper was a hushed sound.

“Beelzebub. Uriel. You will return to your respective head offices and await My Judgement.”

Demon and angel did not wait for any additional prompting – they dispelled in puffs of smoke.

The Almighty turned to leave.

It was a broken question. “_Why?_” His head was too heavy to lift.

They turned to look at him, Their voice was only loud enough for him to hear, the tone a sharp reminder that questions were not always well received. “It was his role in My Ineffable Plan.”

And with the absence of God, the world begun to spin once more. Storms ravaged lands, and fire ate across forests and homes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	23. It's Ineffable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

It took several days, though not nearly seven, to make New Eden, formerly Earth. Demons and angels alike, and the extremes of weather, had killed humankind indiscriminately, yet they were a plentiful lot. It was now a veritable Utopia. No longer was there a necessity for nuclear reactors, or fossil fuel. Air pollution was not a concern in areas that had once been densely populated. The atmosphere had been repaired, and the vibrant ocean reefs had life and colors breathed back into them. Yet for all the miracles that had reshaped the planet, there was a damaged angel that could not be healed.

He had moved only once in the three days since Anthony’s destruction, and it had been to retrieve broken sunglasses. Aziraphale was on his knees, the smudge of scorched earth an altar before him. Since his Creation, Aziraphale had been surrounded by love. It had gone in that one pivotal moment, his soul shredded. He was a being of love that felt nothing. It was not similar to a human’s passing, where one could hope to meet their beloved in the afterlife. There was no hope. None. Anthony was destroyed and was gone forever.

Falling had been an inconceivable concept, something tragic and just beyond reach. But this cut deeper than anything Aziraphale could imagine. Without Anthony, the future was bleak and hopeless, and Aziraphale had to face down an eternity without the other half to his soul and heart. It had been a lonely existence before he met Anthony, but he hadn’t known what he could have. Now he did, and the loss of it was unbearable. It was his own personal Hell on Earth, the Fall that Anthony had wanted to shelter him from.

Tears fell to the cracked black lenses that he cradled, and a thumb slowly, reverently, stroked away dirt. His eyes closed, and he allowed his thoughts to wander.

“_And if we’re sinners, it feels like Heaven to me._” _Their brows touched, yellow eyes meeting blue. _

There had been such love in that look, but the memory of their wedding stirred nothing inside of him. He had nothing. Aziraphale was an empty, hollow shell. No longer could he recall what it had felt like to be held by Anthony, and _that hurt_.

A wretched sob escaped his throat, and Oscar whined quietly. Left arm wrapped around his middle, and he bowed forward. Oh, how wrong he had been. He didn’t feel nothing, not truly. Aziraphale felt the anguish of his loss. It consumed him. The one being that he had loved above all else, and had loved him in return, had been stolen from him.

Madame Tracy and Anathema had tried, quite futilely, to bring the angel inside and help begin stitching together his broken heart. But it was as if nothing else existed. They had lost, and Aziraphale couldn’t go on and live a half-life. In those quiet moments, when it was only he and Oscar, the angel considered self-immolation, but there was no demon that would willingly bring him _his _suicide pill.

Anathema was alone when she approached him, her steps quiet. With a hand supporting the underside of her belly, she knelt. “Aziraphale.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. Worry wrinkled her brow, and she touched a tentative hand to his left shoulder. He shuddered under her palm, but otherwise, he was unresponsive. “Aziraphale, please. Is there anything I can do for you?”

There was no answer.

Anathema leaned towards him, her hug gentle as she rubbed along the length of his back. “We’re here for you, Aziraphale.” A palm rested to the top of Oscar’s head, a gentle pet. With great reluctance, she left him.

_Gone. He’s really, truly gone. For all eternity._ His tears had dried. He had no more to give presently.

“**Aziraphale.**” The Almighty’s arrival broke through the pain of his thoughts. “You will be my liaison here – Archangel of New Eden.”

Aziraphale’s voice, when he found it, was broken and hoarse from disuse. He spoke as if he hadn’t heard a proposed promotion because, honestly, _he didn’t care._ “What did you mean… when you said that he was part of your Ineffable Plan?”

God’s sigh was a whisper of breeze through branches. They had anticipated the question. “When I made Gabriel, I realized that there was only one inevitable outcome. I needed somebody that could do what needed to be done. And I needed to give that somebody a reason to do the things that they did.”

Another caress of his thumb over a damaged lens. Tears threatened to spill, but he swallowed them back. “If you knew so early on that he was going to be a problem… why didn’t you destroy him?”

“It’s hard to destroy one’s own Creation. A culling is one thing, utter obliviation is another. I needed somebody to do it for me.”

He couldn’t look up at her. No matter how dreadful the angels had been, he had always known that the Almighty was different. _But was she truly? _“Why _him?_”

They continued, as if Aziraphale hadn’t spoken. “So I put my plans into motion. There was only one angel that I could cast out that would still retain his Faith. He just needed the proper motivation. So I made you. His perfect catalyst to make sure all the pieces fell into place.”

He hadn’t thought it possible that his heart could fracture more, but it did. Utter hopelessness consumed him. A hand shoved through disheveled blonde curls, tugging harshly. He was unraveling. “I was Created so that he would be y-your… _sacrifice_?” His voice cracked. **_I _**_destroyed him. He’s gone… because of **me.**_

“Yeah, that’s the gist of it.” The sleeves of the crisp, white linen shirt They wore were rolled up forearms. They still had much work to do in Heaven above.

“First you condemned him, a-and… and then you _destroyed_ him. You _destroyed him _after _everything_ that he had already been through.” Blue eyes, red rimmed and swollen, finally lifted to her. Aziraphale could not hide the condemnation in his own gaze.

Their fury was a crackle of static electricity on the air. The angel’s accusation cut deep. “Careful, _Archangel_. As of late, there’s a few vacancies in Hell that need to be filled.”

His laughter was mirthless. Threats of Hell, or even destruction, rolled off of him like water on a duck’s back. Aziraphale could find no reason to carry on with his existence, so he challenged the being that could provide him the reprieve of eternal _nothingness._ “You could have ended it, long before it ever came to this. Instead… y-you pushed us around, like pawns on a chess board. And for what? So that you wouldn’t have blood on your hands.”

“Crowley chose for himself, Aziraphale. Things might have gone quite differently, if he had not chosen to sacrifice himself for the angel he loved.” Their tone was calm; factual. “He had a choice. It was either you, or him. And his mind could not conceive of a life without you.” It was said with indifference, though _life without you _lilted with pity.

Aziraphale hugged himself, his brow almost touching to soot stained earth when he bowed forward. He gave voice to his grief, and openly wept. “_I miss him so much… it hurts too badly._”

They laid a warm hand on his shoulder, and offered a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I truly am.”

They swept passed him to return to Heaven, but drew to a sudden halt, as if they had forgotten something. The snap of fingers in remembrance was booming. “So glad you could finally join us, Archangel Samael.”

Love filled him, and Aziraphale whimpered. Fingernails dug through rumpled clothes to press against his chest, an attempt to bury emotions that hurt too much to feel. Guilt mixed with sorrow. How could he feel love, when Anthony was gone?

God looked Samael over. Something was missing. “Oh. Right.” A lick of Their thumb, and as if wiping away dirt, They rubbed alongside right ear. Empty flesh was marked with an intricate serpent, no longer red, but now an almost unearthly, metallic gold. “Much better. Go get’im, tiger.”

And then They were gone.

It still felt as though the spear was impaled in his chest and the burn of holy divinity as it consumed was a scream that he had to swallow. But just as quickly as he had materialized, the pain was but a distant memory. “_Aziraphale?_” His voice was worshipful and confused and concerned.

There was no mistaking the voice he had known for over six millennia. He whirled around, and attempted to rise, only to collapse back to his knees. His head tipped back, and Aziraphale gazed up with wonder. Never before had he seen something _so beautiful. _

Flowing, white robes pooled around bare feet and a golden halo hung over his head. Red curls spilled over his chest, and midway down his back; a thick braid tamed ringlets back from his face. Once ebon wings were spread behind him, pristine white and each feather flecked with the same gold coloring that accentuated his features. He stared down at Aziraphale with luminous discs of highly polished gold.

It was surreal. Fear choked him. _He’s not really here… _Aziraphale doubled over, trembling, his sobs the lamenting of a love lost.

Crowley went to him, and dropped to his knees. “Shh, angel. I’m here. I’ve got you.” His touch was gentle under Aziraphale’s chin, guiding him to look up. He could see realization dawn in blue eyes, and Crowley folded him into him.

Aziraphale clung to him, desperately… _it’s him, it’s really him. _“_I lost you… you were gone._” He sat back, just enough so that trembling fingertips could trace reassuringly over high cheekbones and strong jaw. His breath was a shuddering exhale, palm hovering over where the spear had pierced through his chest. He was crying again as he lifted his gaze to molten gold eyes.

Crowley pressed Aziraphale’s hand to his chest, and held it there. “I’m here. We’re fine.” Lips pressed reassuringly to his wrinkled brow.

The dam he had built in Anthony’s absence broke, and he allowed himself to feel the love. He was bathed in what he had never realized was the profound depth of how much Anthony truly _loved him_, because yes, of course the love he had thought was only from the mortals around them, was also overwhelmingly from Anthony. The tears that spilled down his cheeks were from relief, and when he pressed lips to Anthony’s, his mouth tasted of them.

His arms wrapped protectively around Aziraphale, drawing him in. Fingers fisted into the antique coat, an almost frantic embrace. He didn’t know how much time had lapsed, but his death had been mere moments before for Crowley. Not only his own death, but also Aziraphale’s, and it was a reminder that even for an immortal being, life was precious. He had no idea why They had brought him back, but Crowley was going to make every moment worthy of a second chance.

So much pain and grief fell away from features that had grown quite peaceful. Aziraphale felt _complete _again. His chin lifted to secure their mouths more firmly together, arms sliding around Anthony’s neck, and then immediately they fell away. Aziraphale withdrew ever so slightly, hands resting against his chest. “Oh, Anthony… your _hair._” It was said empathetically, marveling, and with a quiet laugh.

Crowley’s words stumbled into one another as he lifted a hand to roll a long curl experimentally between thumb and forefinger. “You don’t like it? I can change it back.” It had been so long since he had any length, but Aziraphale only had to say the word, and Crowley would have no regrets going short again.

“Don’t you dare. I finally have the opportunity to run my fingers through it.” He had wanted to do just so throughout history. _And now? _Aziraphale’s touch was delicate as he wound a flaming curl around index finger. “You’re an angel.”

“As God wills it.” His tone was mildly distracted. Crowley was looking him over now – the disastrous state of antique clothing, the dirt smudged over the curve of jaw. Another stabbing ache in his chest. _There was no other way. _

“You were an Archangel before.” It wasn’t a question, and Aziraphale found that he couldn’t quite look up.

“Samael, yes.” Quietly, now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” At last he looked up, and found that he could get lost in golden eyes.

“It didn’t seem right to go on using my angelic name when I was crawling on my belly as a snake. That name doesn’t hold much meaning for me, anymore.” He had spent six thousand years forging his own identity. He would always be Anthony Janthony Crowley, Aziraphale’s husband.

“You’ll always be my Anthony.”

Mouths met again. It was a needful kiss, tongues teasing against one another.

Anathema and Newton stood at the window, unabashedly watching the reunion. Anathema had pulled out her cellphone to record the interaction. “For Madame Tracy…” It was said guiltily.

Breathless, and very much in love, Aziraphale murmured against Anthony’s mouth. “I’d quite like to go home now.”

**(To be continued...)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	24. An angel wings mug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

**(Continued...)**

A quiet, satisfied sound was made in the back of his throat as he stretched. Anthony was coiled around him, cheek resting on the left side of his chest. Absently, fingers stroked through long, sleep-mused curls, garnering a sleepy groan. The smile that teased the corners of his mouth was small, but peaceful. Though his eyes were closed, Aziraphale was very much awake, reveling in the feel of him; something he thought he would never have again.

Grief threatened to slice through blissful happiness, but Anthony was very real and very warm against him.  _ Archangel Samael… _ yet he was no different than before his Destruction. Fingertips slid down the ridges of his spine. The physical manifestation of their week making love, in the form of nails, teeth, and overexerted muscles, healed without conscience thought beneath Aziraphale’s touch. Anthony groaned quietly.

He ought to let Oscar out into the garden to stretch his legs. He could take tea while he did. A kiss was pressed to the crown of curls, lingering. Very carefully, Aziraphale untangled himself from his husband, mindful not to wake him.

Right arm swept over an empty mattress, finding only air. He cracked an eye open to frown where Aziraphale was supposed to have been, and groaned. Since he was alone, he allowed his voice to convey how disappointing it was that now he’d have to get out of bed and hunt down his angel, “I wanted to cuddle before getting up.” Crowley buried his face in a pillow, and tried to fall back asleep. He couldn’t. He took a moment to take stock of himself. It was the first moment he had been able to since the whole sordid Gabriel ordeal…

_ The very spear that had pierced Jesus’ side and drank of his blood, ripped through bone and muscle, stopping only when it erupted from his back. He could feel the very essence of his being tearing, unraveling painfully. His gaze was locked on shocked purple as he roared. Crowley only saw blue eyes as they danced with innocent joy, so easily pleased with simple acts of Crowley’s affection… a demonic miracle making gloomy Hamlet a success for the ages, a blue paint stain breathed from his coat… beloved books of prophecy saved from a bomb. Crowley hadn’t seen it then, but he could, now. How blatant Aziraphale’s love for him had been. And in his last moments, Crowley smiled as he waltzed through history with Aziraphale one last time; welcoming nothingness to save the only being that mattered. It was over rather quickly, and then… _

The next moment he had stood before the Almighty, pain dissolving, leaving an entrance and exit scar to be discovered later. He had gone to Aziraphale then, a broken angel that mourned his demise. They had spent a week reassuring one another. If Crowley were being honest, he would admit that he felt no differently than before…  _ what does that mean about me, then? _

“ _ Not gonna go there _ .” Crowley slithered from the bed at last, following the delicate threads that connected him to Aziraphale, like a sixth sense. As he passed from library into vacant hallway, he draped his nudity in his thin, black silk robe, which he absently tugged his long hair free of, and black boxer briefs.

Oscar darted past his legs as he opened the back door, and Aziraphale cinched his fluffy, powder blue robe tighter at the waist. A quiet hum of delight, as he took a sip of tea; warm as the sun that shone down on him. He closed his eyes to bask in the moment. They had been too preoccupied with one another to take much note of New Eden. The air felt cleaner as Aziraphale drew in a deep breath, his sigh a wistful exhale.

Bare feet were quiet on kitchen tiles, long fingers buried in fiery curls that were combed back, and then tied in a haphazard bun. For several long moments, Crowley stood several paces behind him, head tipped to his shoulder, as he studied Aziraphale. He was bathed in a halo of sunlight, and he committed the image to memory. The predator was ever so quiet as he stalked his prey. Plucking the collar of thick robe gently, his mouth was a greeting caress at the nape of his neck in a low, growling voice, “morning, angel.”

Aziraphale shuddered, his mug shattering as it slipped from his grasp. He turned to Anthony, a bit too hastily, right hand fluttering up, then lowering. “Oh, how-how  _ clumsy _ of me.” His voice quivered, blue eyes just slightly too wide. The worry that wrinkled his brow lingered, and then his expression grew still, the surface of the ocean on a windless day.

Golden eyes devoured the expression, playful demeanor immediately replaced with protective vigilance. Crowley slipped past Aziraphale, an irreflective snap of his fingers repaired the angel wings mug, and returned it to the cupboard. His pace was casual, attention shifting between their surroundings and Aziraphale. Neutrally, he asked, “you alright, angel?”

Oscar, who had been drawn to the sound of breaking ceramic, was sidetracked by leaves suddenly swept up in a breeze. He gave playful chase.

“Oh yes, rather.” Aziraphale tugged at the sash of his robe, tightening it, then slipped his hands into oversized pockets that warmed suddenly cold digits. “You startled me, is all. I-I was lost in thought,” a clearing of his throat, falling quiet. He smiled.

Crowley frowned at him, skeptical, but gestured for him to proceed back into the cottage. Crowley followed, and gave a sharp whistle over his shoulder. Oscar beat him inside, padded feet fighting for purchase on tiles as he tried to stop. His backside connected with the opposite wall, and he barked in dissatisfaction. “D’you want me to make you a cuppa tea while I make coffee?” Though he asked, Crowley was already filling the kettle with water.

Aziraphale stepped towards the dinette in the corner, fingertips trailing over the glossy surface. Behind him, Anthony hummed quietly. He couldn’t identify the song’s name, but knew he had heard it at least once. Aziraphale was drawn to that familiarity. His arms wrapped around his middle, and hands slid beneath black silk, gliding over bare flesh. With his cheek pressed to the back curve of his shoulder, Aziraphale could still feel the vibration of Anthony’s hum resonate through him. “Thank you for fixing my mug, I’m particularly attached to it.”

He turned the top of the line coffee machine on. With time left only to wait, Crowley allowed himself to relax against the soft body molded intimately behind him. “It suits you.”

Throughout history, Crowley had found himself in many different types of shops, vendors, and exotic bazaars. With the angel never far from his thoughts, it often happened that he found a trinket that reminded him of Aziraphale. He never gave them in person, and the spontaneous gifts always arrived without a note.

**Five Years Earlier**

The nondescript package had arrived at the Dowlings’ Official London Residence. It was placed on the desk with another note from Frederick the Butler,

_ Dinner tonight? _

_ Hopelessly yours, _

_ Frederick _

The invitation burst into flames before it had even settled in the empty bin. Each moment with Aziraphale was savored, but the butler was becoming a bit of a nuisance. With exasperation, teeth tugged at the fingertip of a black glove, stripping it off. A long, sharp nail sliced through paper tape.

The angel wings mug was held aloft, Crowley’s chin lifted, slender throat bared. In confusion, she searched her memories, trying to pinpoint the moment she had purchased the bloody thing. ****

**Three Days Earlier**

She strode purposefully towards the back of the property, cursing in a most unladylike manner, as her heels sunk into soft earth. Frederick had invited her to dinner,  _ again _ . He seemed to be deaf to her blatant ‘no’. It wasn’t only about the meal, but what Crowley knew Frederick would hope came after. He had lusted for her since she had arrived, and at first, it had been entertaining. But Crowley had pretenses to uphold, and an Antichrist to raise, and it was hard to remain professional when he leered at her around corners. Unfortunately, she couldn’t do much of anything; she didn’t want to jeopardize her post… where she lived, so very close to Aziraphale, though it didn’t presently seem that way. By the time she stood before the door, she was quite frustrated.

She had brought two bottles of wine, their necks balanced between the gloved fingers of her right hand. Two wine glasses were cupped in the left. “Angel,” Her voice was unnecessarily loud as she shouted through the door. “I can’t get the damned door, my hands are full.”

Aziraphale opened the door, and stepped aside. “Crowley, you shouldn’t shout. They might hear you.” He glanced outside behind her, though he wasn’t worried about the Dowlings, or their staff, overhearing. He locked the door behind them, then turned to face her. A glass was thrust at him, and he took it. She was seated on the counter, long legs crossed beneath her wool skirt. Blue eyes were forced Heavenward with a silent prayer.

“Relax, angel. No one in Heaven above, or Hell below, suspects a thing. Warlock is off spending the night with Tyler, and the Dowlings are arguing with one another.” Through dark lenses, she watched him above the tilt of her glass, draining it in a few gulps. Their fingers brushed as they both reached for the bottle, Aziraphale withdrawing as if he had been burned. She winced.  _ Too fast, Crowley.  _ And though the end of the world loomed ever closer, she wouldn’t rush Aziraphale. She was grateful for whatever time she was able to have with him. Crowley poured another glass, and by the time she had downed it, Aziraphale had finished his first. She poured for the both of them.

“Is it Frederick again?” His voice was quiet with concern, watching as she finished a third.

He recalled when she had first told him of Frederick’s advances. He had felt a harsh pang of sadness at the prospect of seeing Crowley with someone else… but if it brought her happiness, ‘ _ well, perhaps, if you’re inter— _ …’ Her interruption had been flat, and forceful, ‘ _ I’m not.’ _ She had not even entertained the idea. Oh, what relief Aziraphale had felt.

_ The boy’s too normal.  _ It was a mantra that she hated reciting, but couldn’t seem to quiet. The question caught her off-guard. “What? No. It’s nothing.” Another glass downed, but she topped off Aziraphale’s with the last bit in the bottle. “Come on, angel, let’s get comfortable.”

Aziraphale was a creature of comfort, and though the small cottage had come furnished, he had still miraculously brought with him the sofa from his bookshop. Crowley was stretched out on it now, settled on an angled hip, her body leaned against the arm of the sofa, knuckles supporting her chin. Her glasses had gone missing at some point, as had her wool coat, heels, and right glove. She was intently studying the Scrabble board, gaze flicking between it and her own letters.

_ R, U, M, B, L, A. F, _

At least, she was pretty sure that was accurate. Her vision was fuzzy with alcohol. She made her play.

Aziraphale sat forward, blinking through his double vision, brow furrowed. “ _ Fubar? _ ” He looked up at her, skeptical, but it shifted to admiration; the first time he had truly allowed himself to look at her since they had been in the kitchen. His smile was bright, expression soft. She had undone her dark bowtie, and loosened a button, allowing a glimpse of the hollow of her throat. It was almost indecent. She was radiant.

“Wot?” He was doing it again, so wholesome that she wasn’t certain how she could survive around a being that contained such Heavenly Light and purity. Crowley had to force her gaze down, back to the board. “Fubar’s a word, angel.”

His glass paused midway to his lips. “I was under the impre—idea-- that you’d misspelled something.” Raised eyebrows, quite satisfied with himself.

“You’re drunk. S’a word, angel.”

Aziraphale nearly choked on his wine in his haste to blurt, “Crowley, tha’s  _ not _ a word!”

Crowley glared at him, and with glass in hand, she gestured to the dictionary on the table that was currently cluttered with empty bottles. “Yes it bloody well  _ issss _ ! Look it up, smarty pants!”

Aziraphale reached for the dictionary that, whenever they played Scrabble, had to be kept on hand at all times. He didn’t trust the internet. Aziraphale flipped to where it should have been, blinked several times to bring the small and blurred words into focus, found it, and read aloud, “Fucked up beyond all recognition?”

Crowley fell off the couch. She hadn’t even been draped towards the end… one moment she was comfortably lounged, the next she was looking up at Aziraphale’s startled blue eyes. Her legs were tangled in her long skirt, and her hip was cocked uncomfortably, her lower half still caught on the cushions. Miraculously, not a drop of wine had spilled. Using the hand that cupped the bowl of her glass, she pointed an accusing finger at Aziraphale. “ _ W-w-w-what di – angel – what did you just say?! _ ”

His brow furrowed, and his gaze dropped back to the definition. Fingertips pressed to his lips, trying to silence his gasp of surprise. “ _ Oh! _ ” It was an embarrassed and dramatic sound, followed by a delicate hiccup. “Oh! Crowley, I am  _ so  _ sorry!” His cheeks were flushed with alcohol, but he could feel them grow warmer.

His absurd apology finally kicked her out of her amazed stupor, and she erupted in laughter. “Do the other angels know you have such a naughty mouth?” Her wheezing laughter fell quiet, and Satan help her, her gaze dropped to those soft, pink lips. Crowley’s gaze lingered, knowing he would taste of wine and probably sunshine.

He had already forgotten the swear word, because his gaze followed the path of her long, slender legs, still draped on the sofa. The typically demure length of skirt was hiked indecently high, still below her knees, but baring a glimpse of a silky calf. Sheer, black stockings scarcely provided any modesty. A deep breath was drawn in, and while Aziraphale took a sip of wine, he sent a quiet prayer up to the Almighty. He hadn’t drank nearly enough. Crowley was sitting up by the time he had finished refilling his wine glass. He poured more into her now empty glass. Her cheeks were full with the wine she had filled her mouth with, and she gulped it down. She was quite endearing. “Is Fubar really a word, Crowley?”

Crowley tucked her legs primly beneath herself, after smoothing down her skirt. She had to bite back another round of childish laughter; the angel had been genuinely scandalized as he had realized his faux pas. “Oh yeah, no, eh, ’course it is.”

Aziraphale was unconvinced. “It doesn’t say if it’s a noun or adjective, or have a country of origin.” A sip of his wine, and then he scolded her properly. “Crowley, I told you that definitions from Urban Dictionary don’t count.”

Her voice dropped, a throaty purr as she leaned towards him, closing only some of the vast distance that separated them. “And I told you that I don’t agree with that rule.” And then she leaned back, her wineglass emptied. She tinkled a black painted nail against the crystal, and finding that she liked the sound, she did it several more times. Aziraphale silenced her by refilling her glass. “Besides, s’not in the rule book, so it doesn’t count.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as he raised his glass, exasperated that he couldn’t disagree. He did add, “Were you aware that you’ve been wearing only one glove for nearly the entire evening?”

Crowley peeled her remaining glove off, and threw it at him.

Scrabble had commenced, and Aziraphale won. Crowley had won chess. They hadn’t finished drinking, neither wanting their time to end. The sun was rising, chasing away the remainder of another night they had been able to spend together. The empty wine glasses she had stolen from the Dowlings’ kitchen were balanced in one hand, the other carrying her heels, with her jacket draped over a forearm. Neither of them had sobered yet. Crowley fought for something to say, to prolong their time together, and found nothing. “I better head back to my room, lest I sully your reputation,  _ Brother Francis. _ ”

She leaned back against the counter, her glasses tucked into red curls, allowing him to meet serpent yellow. There was an intensity in that gaze, which was typically hidden from him. He didn’t know how to interpret it, and he was too drunk to try to cope with things that were better off tucked away for now. Aziraphale frowned at Crowley, perplexed. “Why would you su –  _ oh _ ...” He blushed, and stammered, “I-I mean… t-that they would a-assume such…”

Crowley cackled in delight. “Angel, your virtue shall remain intact as far as they know. Tell me, though. Did Brother Francis choose chastity because of his teeth?” She had to bite her bottom lip to try to silence more giggles. Aziraphale was aware of how utterly ridiculous she found Brother Francis, and he had always insisted that it was pertinent for his disguise. Yet, at least while drunk, Crowley could admit that if Brother Francis had ever thrown himself at her, she wouldn’t have turned him down, because she would take Aziraphale however he presented. Sober Crowley would later remind her that she didn’t deserve him.

“No, Brother Francis chose poverty, chastity, and obedience as a way to minimize distractions so that he could focus on getting closer to the Almighty.” And then, with a grin he added, “Humans don’t realize that She is in the love we have for our little hobbies and pleasures we—er,  _ they! _ —f-f-find in…  _ t-their  _ lives.” He was an angel, part of Heaven. They were humans, and Crowley was a demon, and those were facts he couldn’t dispute. Even though they lived closer than they ever had before, on the same premises even, each goodbye felt difficult and lonesome. They had so many partings throughout their history, after such short time spent together, that even though they still had three years left, Aziraphale was almost waiting for the moment that one of them had to pop off for another century. Should they failed, after these three years, their next parting would be for an eternity.

“Enjoy the sunshine today, if there is any. I’m going to go hibernate until Warlock returns.” Aziraphale had opened the door for her, and she managed to draw her sunglasses down over snake eyes with the crook of a finger. “But I’m right here if you need anything, angel.” She lingered in the threshold, and then she turned back towards the large house.

Aziraphale watched her go, her hips swaying and head bopping as she sauntered across the expansive lawn in stockinged feet.

Neither of them saw Frederick standing at his window, watching Nanny’s walk of shame in rumpled clothes. Crimson curls were unpinned around her shoulders, and aflame in the morning sun.

Ah, so that was when. Crowley had retired to her own quarters and proceeded to get black out drunk. She had apparently tried to cope with her sorrow the same way Mrs. Dowling sometimes did; with alcohol and online shopping. Clever humans making it so they never even had to leave their home.

The night had been so domestic and perfect, and had only succeeded in drilling in the fact that the world was ending and so too, would… whatever it was they had. Crowley frowned at the mug. It was something he could see Aziraphale using.

And so, he had put it in the cupboards of Aziraphale’s little cottage, unwrapped. Neither mentioned its appearance. He wasn’t even certain if Aziraphale had noticed it.

**Present Day**

But of course he had found it, and now Crowley could imagine Brother Francis attempting to drink from it. “Utterly ridiculous.”

A cheek was rubbed against black silk, but that wouldn’t do. Anthony helped him slip off the thin robe, and it pooled at their feet. Aziraphale pressed against him once more, arms loose around him, cheek nuzzling between shoulder blades. Fingertips slid down his chest, circled his navel, and then traced the path of the elastic band of undergarments. “What is, my love?”

Crowley couldn’t recall  _ what _ . Fingers trailed over his masculinity, and he grew hard against the hand, his head falling back to stare Heavenward. They had spent a week in bed, and Crowley was beginning to learn just how amorous his angel truly was. “Yo—“ he cleared his throat, and tried again. “You’re quite insatiable, angel.”

Lips brushed against upper spine, his left hand tracing up the ridges of sinewy muscles. He untangled the elastic band, freeing fiery curls. “I suppose I’m just making up for time lost.” His breath was warm against the skin beneath his mouth, fingers molding to the length of Anthony through fitted black fabric. He could feel his own body responding to the feel of him, hot and hard beneath his hand. “ _ Anthony, _ ” It was a quiet plea.

The kettle shrieked and Aziraphale fell back a step, startled.

“ _ Fucking bollocks. _ ” He snatched the kettle off the burner, and placed it aside to cool. When he turned back to Aziraphale, he had shed his fluffy robe, and stood naked, in a sliver of sunlight. Crowley growled an admiring sound, then slipped out of his boxer briefs. Aziraphale came to him, their mouths meeting in a hungry kiss. Fingers slid in his hair, and Crowley groaned appreciatively. A foot slid between Aziraphale’s, and he changed their positions. Crowley lifted him up onto the counter, lean frame slipping between parted limbs. His hands slid up the outside of thick thighs, then tightened appreciatively, cradling them against his hips.

Anthony’s mouth was moving against his throat, and his head rested back against the cupboard. A hand found itself buried in long curls again, sweeping them from his shoulder. Aziraphale shifted slightly. Knuckles tickled over his pelvis, moving closer to his arousal, but continuing past, up the softness of his belly. The breath he hadn’t realized he held was a trembling sigh. “Anthony, I need you…”

Lips were soft against his ear, his voice a low whisper, “As you wish, but only after I’ve had breakfast.” Crowley quieted Aziraphale’s confusion with a kiss, and the angel soon learned that  _ he  _ was breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	25. Come on, Hamlet! Buck up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

**I.**

Crowley had coerced Aziraphale into going for a walk. He had been reluctant, content to remain at home, but Crowley was beginning to grow restless. There was a lack of humanity around them to keep them grounded; six centuries could have passed, and Crowley wouldn’t have known. With their ethereal biology, they had no real necessity as the mortals did, and so time slipped through his fingers, days bleeding into night in an infinite, elusive cycle.

Aziraphale was settled on a lounge that seemed more apropos for modern royalty. When he gave it consideration, that seemed to accurately summarize Anthony’s eclectic tastes. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was open in his lap. Oscar and Anthony raced past Aziraphale, splashing through the water. The corgi pulled ahead of his angelic father, barking excitedly. A foot caught in the wet sand, twisting, and he tumbled forward. Anthony rolled onto his back, and lay still at last. His gasp was a quiet, inhaled breath as Aziraphale rose. Shakespeare fell, forgotten, and he stepped over the folio. His heart was suddenly in his throat, Oscar’s barking lost beneath the loud thrum of his pulse pounding in his ears.

Cracking a lid open imperceptibly, Crowley watched the beast bound within touching distance, and then back again. A curious paw bat at his mouth, and Crowley growled a low, threatening sound. The dog bounced closer, and when a hand snuck out to grab him, Oscar darted just out of reach. “I’mma get you, y’big bastard.” As Crowley sat up and shook the sand out of his hair, the Corgi raced past him. In an instant, he was on his feet to give chase; clothes heavy with water and sand. His gaze flicked to Aziraphale, delicate features pale in the waning sunlight. Crowley’s direction shifted, drawing to an abrupt, stumbling to a halt before him. “You alright, angel?”

Blue eyes met gold temporarily, brows drawn together in a frown. Anthony wasn’t still for long -- he paced around him protectively, gaze taking in their open surroundings. “Yes, yes, quite so. Are _ you _alright? You fell…” Anthony finally paused before him, his hands reassuring and strong when they gripped his biceps. His hand trembled, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin, as knuckles swept over a stubbled cheek.

“’Course. Why wouldn’t I be? Was just playing with the Behemoth. He's quick, that one.” This was admitted with admiration, a sidelong glance cast in the mongrel’s direction. He had dug a small hole for himself, laying his exposed belly on the overturned, cool sand. Aziraphale was fussing, looking him over for injury and miracling away the grit of sand. Crowley rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “I’m not made of glass, angel. I’m invincible. Not even that bastard Gabriel could take me out.” 

That did little to ease Aziraphale’s worry. Right thumb stroked over the ridge of left knuckles. “Anthony, that’s what they said of the Titanic. Well, not precisely that, but, _ you know _…”

Capturing Aziraphale’s hands in both of his own, Crowley lifted them for a reassuring kiss; first to the back of them, and then to the inside of each wrist. “Unsinkable, that’s whot I am.” 

He sighed, wistfully. “You’re a dolt, is what you are.” There was profound affection as he said it, and Aziraphale was unable to resist slipping into Anthony’s welcoming embrace. _ Unsinkable. One can only hope. _Rather quickly, he could feel the cold chill of Anthony's saturated clothing seeping through his own. “Oh, my dear. You must be freezing.”

Crowley nuzzled into the halo of silky curls. “I hadn’t noticed. Since m’already wet, wanna go for a swim?” Aziraphale’s voice was muffled against the side of his throat, his breath warm as it fanned over damp flesh. Crowley shuddered, fingers curling into the fabric of the antiquated coat. “Come on, angel. It’ll be ** _f_ ** _ un. _”

“It sounds cold…” Though they couldn’t fall ill, Aziraphale was not inclined towards partaking in activities that seemed quite uncomfortable.

“Oh-cold? No, ye-yeah, it is. I could warm it up for us, though. Here—“

Aziraphale had never found his scarf more useful – with a hand curling around it, he stopped Anthony with a gentle tug. “I can’t tell if you’re doing one of your…” Aziraphale waved his free hand, vaguely, at him. “..._ things _.”

_ Things? _ Crowley scowled at Aziraphale, perplexed. “You—are you talking about when I _ joke? _” As realization dawned, his voice rose with his exaggerated horror.

Oblivious to Anthony’s exasperation, Aziraphale nodded appreciatively. “Yes, just that.” Anthony’s outburst of laughter was awarded a disapproving frown. “Would you care to divulge your thoughts with the rest of the colloquium?”

Crowley tried to bite back his grin, but failed. Knuckles rested beneath the underside of Aziraphale’s chin, and his downturned lips were claimed in a brief kiss. “I wasn’t joking.” Slipping out of his angel’s enticing embrace, Crowley began peeling off layers of soaked clothing. “Wot?”

“What if someone sees you?” Aziraphale tried to hide his fretting, but failed hopelessly. The space between them was bridged, gently easing away Anthony’s hands so that he could work on the buttons of first his black waistcoat, and then the shirt beneath.

“D’you think I’d allow humans to stumble upon us here, angel?” Crowley studied the beautiful, elegant hands that he had captured with his own. When was the last time Aziraphale had gone to get his routine manicure? Crowley had been selfishly keeping the angel to himself. It was easy to do, when the only being he wanted around, just so happened to be his husband. “This beach has been forgotten to them for some time now. Just you and me.”

“Just you and me.” He smiled. “Then… I suppose… that I will just have to sit back and enjoy the show.”

Crowley arched a brow, but relented. “Well, alright. If you insist.” 

Aziraphale mirrored Anthony’s expression. Was it his imagination, or had he seen mischief flicker in luminous gold eyes? He took a step back, peeling off the layering of his overcoat, waistcoat, and shirt, as he did. Aziraphale devoured the way lithe muscles tightened as he lifted his arms to free his hair, shaking out long, crimson curls. He wanted to play in the fiery strands. A discordian note cut through the silence, and a hand rested above his suddenly racing heart. It came from the portable telephone that Anthony carried with him, which projected much more clearly and loudly than it perhaps ought to be able to do.

_ Worship your body as you walk my way, _

_ You’re the only one who can make me pray _

Crowley was captivated by Aziraphale’s features, drinking every beautiful expression as it dawned. The woman’s sensual crooning was blasphemous, yet Crowley felt the song resonate within his very essence. It was as if she had heard him lamenting at a pub, and expressed his woe beautifully with her song. Pink stained Aziraphale’s impossibly soft cheeks; he was painfully, exquisitely, perfect.

_ I can fight but the devil wins, _

_ And I will fall like I sin new sins _

Aziraphale felt overly attentive to the titillating lyrics. His beat of horror at how truly felicitous they were dissolved as he tracked Anthony’s elegant hands. Slender digits, with thick knuckles that Aziraphale knew so intimately, trailed down his chest. Fingers deftly parted the snakehead belt, and Aziraphale finally submitted to the overwhelming need to be close to him. Nearly inaudible, Anthony sang along, though he was silenced when their lips met.

_ Undying devotion, feel you in my core, _

_ Veneration, this faith’s got me high _

_ Nothing without you, live for you ‘til I die _

Crowley’s arms encircled Aziraphale, drawing him in closer, needing that physical connection. He’d rather that there wasn’t a barrier of clothing between them. Through the layers, he could feel the swell of Aziraphale’s arousal against his abdomen. Tongues met, tasting and teasing. The muffled, delicate moan against his mouth caused a familiar, visceral need to hear it again. Even still, it sometimes astounded him that he was the one causing such carnal sounds from his sweet angel.

_ Drink my tears, I’m at your mercy, _

_ I love you most, but I’m not worthy _

_ I give my soul, sacrifice me, _

_ ‘Cause your love is holy _

With reluctance, he broke the kiss, Anthony’s displeasure was expressed with a low, throaty growl that sent a thrill of excitement racing down his spine. Rather than fussing with leather pants that looked as if they’d require divine intervention to strip down long limbs, Aziraphale made a small gesture with right hand. The miracle returned their clothing, and his irreplaceable first edition, to their cottage – cleaned and placed away. 

He could feel Anthony’s sex, hard and unyielding, slide against his own. His sigh was closer to a scarcely contained whimper. “I do believe you’ve convinced me to go for that swim…”

It took Crowley a moment to piece together what Aziraphale was alluding to. But once he had, he was more than willing to rise to the challenge. They leisurely explored one another’s body, the water buoyant and miraculously warm only for them.

**II.**

Aziraphale was tucked into the right corner of their sofa, legs crossed at the knee. _ The Tragedy of Hamlet _ was open in his lap. Oscar was curled against his hip, and he absently stroked fingers through soft fur. He lifted the glass of dark wine to his lips.

_ To be, or not to be? _

“Come on, Hamlet. Buck up.” His voice was quiet, an echo of distant memories. _ Oh, he’s not my friend. _They could have had more time together if they had ever divulged their feelings to one another. But Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to, not then. He’d always been too concerned over what Hell would do to him, should they discover his fraternization with an angel. Aziraphale couldn’t fathom how Hell would have reacted—

_ The Spear of Destiny descended, and Aziraphale clung to an image of Anthony – ebon wings stretched behind him, the striking angles of his face bathed in the ethereal glow emanating from the nebula. There had been something beautiful and hopeful in his expression. _

The glass was raised, but it was empty. The accompanying bottle held scarcely more than a splash of wine. When both were empty, he returned them to the table. His gaze returned to Hamlet.

_ The heartache and the thousand natural shocks… _

The play was one of Shakespeare’s most illustrious pieces because of Anthony. But hadn’t he always been so generous? It had begun in 4004, when he had been consumed with guilt and anxiety over giving away his sword, despite that he had felt at the very core of his essence, that it had been the right thing to do. Anthony had reassured him, and offered Aziraphale his friendship. Throughout history, he had always been able to anticipate his needs, and ensured Aziraphale would want for nothing. A rescue in Paris, a demonic miracle for his books, a shoulder to cry on after Sodom and Gomorrah.

_ He braced for the fatal blow. Anthony manifested with a war cry. The spear tore through his back, and then Anthony was… gone. _

_ To sleep, perchance to dream. _

“You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” He glared at the _ Sansevieria trifasciata _ , hands folded behind him as he bent. Crowley’s voice was a low hiss. The plant trembled in response. “I expect better from _ you _.” He turned to include the other plants, his voice low, in part, to prevent an interruption as he was reasserting his dominance, and because he didn’t wish to disturb Aziraphale while he read. “Everybody. I would hate to have to remind you of what happens if you fuck up. Angel won’t be able to save you.” 

Crowley picked up the plant mister, quiet now that his point had been made. Each plant was given a thorough assessment, and equal attention. This afforded him time to reflect back on… however long it had been. He had hoped that as time progressed, he’d begin to feel more… _ angelic. _But he didn’t. He wondered, not for the first time, what did that mean for his second chance? And also, not for the first time, Crowley had to force the intrusive, doubting thoughts away. He had to have trust in God’s Ineffable Plan, right?

Once he was finished, a last scathing look was cast over his shoulder. He found Aziraphale settled comfortably on their sofa, and Crowley crossed the room to him. His cheeks were flushed prettily from the wine, and blue eyes shone somberly when they lifted from what was likely a gloomy read. 

Crowley’s frustration melted away. He had an epiphany as he gazed upon such Heavenly perfection – that none of it mattered, not truly. What he valued above all sat before him. Crowley was living his perfect Heaven. He had Aziraphale, they were married, and shared a life together. They were able to be happy, and Crowley _ was _ happy. Shooing away the Behemoth, Crowley unceremoniously draped himself half on the couch, and half in Aziraphale’s lap.

_ But wait, here is the beautiful Ophelia! _

He scarcely had time to move the folio before Anthony was in his lap, and the book was miraculously returned to his desk. Glorious red curls were absently unbound, and he buried his hands in the soft strands. “God, your hair is beautiful.” Aziraphale was drunk, and with Anthony’s head resting against his thighs, he couldn’t derail a memory of silky crimson ringlets, stark contrast against his own pale skin, gold eyes watching him, Anthony’s mouth warm and wet, and… “_ Oh, dear _.”

His eyes were closed, enjoying the slide of fingers in his hair. Unexpectedly, he felt Aziraphale grow hard against his head. When he looked up, Aziraphale was gently biting his lip, his stare heated and intent. Crowley knew the look, and so he sat up, a hand braced to a thick thigh. Aziraphale tasted of wine, and he whimpered against the kiss as Crowley’s tongue teased over bottom lip. Delicate fingers tugged gently at his grey scarf, drawing Crowley closer. A snap, and they collapsed back into the soft pillows on their bed, where they could both forget about the world beyond one another.

**III.**

They were settled on the plump, blood red, gold gilded sofa in their personal theatre. Crowley didn’t realize that one needed a subscription to typically watch the medieval fantasy show, but it played as he willed it regardless. He blamed Hastur for its degradation and eventual, asinine conclusion. As he raised his scotch, fingers stroked absently over Aziraphale’s bicep. The lights were dimmed, yet bright enough so that his angel could read.

He was cocooned in Anthony’s warmth, tucked into his side. Aziraphale shifted closer into him, seeking familiar warmth. _ Antony and Cleopatra _ was open in his lap, and he took a sip of _ Chateauneuf du Pape _. 

_ Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety. _

Anthony sometimes had such a beautiful way with words.

_ I don’t need you. _

_ Well, and the feeling is mutual, obviously. _

How lonesome it had been while Anthony was away, the intrigue in his life that he had come to anticipate sorely lacking. So Aziraphale had filled his time with fascinating, intellectual humans and discreet clubs, but it hadn’t been the same. No one else had been able to hold his engagement, no matter how interesting they may have been.

_ Why do you read so much? _

The conversation on the unnecessarily large cinematographic screen caught his attention. 

_ Look at me, and tell me what you see. _

_ Things are expected of me. _

A slight frown furrowed his brows, his attention claimed by the characters. Aziraphale finished his drink, and Anthony refilled it for him. It resonated with him, that expectation that he had never been able to meet, no matter what he did.

_ Well, my brother has his sword, and I have my mind. _

_ And a mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone. _

Crowley had seen the first half of the show several times, and should have known that the finale would herald in the apocalypse. Fingertips continued grazing over upper arm, thoughtful. Aziraphale had inadvertently presented him with a puzzle that he had been attempting to piece together. He finally felt that he had perhaps figured it out. His attention shifted to Aziraphale, who was engaged in the screen. Surprised, he glanced over to see what was so riveting. He looked back to Aziraphale, and though he couldn’t see it, an eyebrow cocked. “You’re watching?”

_ Everything’s better with some wine in the belly. _

“Oh, I wanted to see what all of your fussing and ‘_ I drink and I know things’ _ has been all about.”

“I do _ not _ fuss. And I _ do _drink… and know things.”

“Oh, yes. Obviously, my dearest husband.”

Crowley sighed heavily, then pressed a kiss to the crown of blonde curls. Despite the protest, he slithered out of Aziraphale’s embrace. “I’m just gonna go…” Crowley mumbled incoherently, concluding with “... out.” He set his glass on the marble coffee table, then slipped quietly out of the room.

Aziraphale watched him go, then turned back to his book. He had been able to find moments of happiness in the seventy-nine years that led up to his dabbling in unsuccessful espionage. The Gavotte, for instance, had brought him such pure joy. There had been no expectations, or ever-present fears of its demise, though he had been quite put out when it went out of fashion. Aziraphale was able to find those moments because he was content in the knowing of Anthony’s safety. How differently would things have gone if he had maintained that distance between them? How differently would things be now?

His back pressed to the slate grey corridor wall, and he slid down, left leg cocked up, the right stretched out. His arm curled over the top of his knee, and his gaze lowered to the large watch face. His angel enjoyed sex immensely, and by no means was Crowley complaining of it, but Aziraphale had become voracious, particularly whenever he returned after being away for a handful of minutes. And though again he wasn’t complaining, there were days that slid by without either of them seeing the rise or fall of the sun.

_ 04… 03… 02… 01… _

He had given it ten minutes. When he returned, Aziraphale’s head was tipped back, his gaze fixated on the screen. Crowley’s followed. Never before had he found the sight of humans engaged in their lustful rutting to be anything more than an idle curiosity, but on the enormous screen, the petite, blonde woman was riding her dark haired Khal, and it sparked an image of Aziraphale astride him. Having must have heard the door close behind him, Aziraphale twisted on the couch enough to turn to him. In the dim lights, Crowley could see the yearning there. “I can’t leave you alone for ten minutes.” He meant to scold gently, but his mouth was suddenly much too dry. 

Aziraphale’s voice was breathy and quiet, “_ So then don’t. _” And how could Crowley deny that?

**IV.**

He was curled into the right corner of their sofa, his favorite mug cupped in his hands. The cocoa was soothing and familiar, the alcohol he had spiked it with a welcoming heat. There were times that he sat in the garden while Anthony tended to his plants, but then there were other instances, when he knew that Anthony needed to be alone. Aziraphale could be quite perceptive of his husband’s emotions, but found that, presently, he wasn’t certain. So he had remained inside, a book open in his lap. He allowed himself a moment to indulge in a small bit of worry. Was he beginning to grate on Anthony’s infinite patience with his urges? A drink from the mug, and he forced his gaze down to _ Romeo and Juliet _. 

_ Which, as they kiss, consume: the sweetest honey _

_ Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, _

_ And in the taste confounds the appetite: _

_ Therefore love moderately: _

_ Long love doth so. _

Love moderately, yet he could love Anthony in no other way than with his whole being.

_ He stood at the end of the aisle, Heaven and Hell framing the white path he was to take. Every gaze was upon him now, and he could feel the heated glare of judgement, disgust, and loathing. Years of inadequacy were suffocating him. Every time he had ever been told that he was going to fail and that he wasn’t good enough crashed down around him. Every doubt that he had ever been on the receiving end of, every reminder that he was worthless consumed him. _

But then he had seen Anthony waiting for him at the end of the aisle, patient and encouraging. When had he sealed Anthony’s fate?

_ The Hellfire was almost too bright, almost too hot. And then a cool breeze that took Anthony’s ash with it. _

_ And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars, _

_ From this world-wearied flesh. _

A forearm wiped sweat from his brow, and he stood. Crowley had stripped off his black silk shirt long ago. Aziraphale had bought him a pair of protective gloves not long after they had first moved into the cottage. They were yellow, with little blue tulips and red snakes slithering between the flowers. They were hideous, and Crowley loved them dearly. He wore them every time he tended the garden. Oscar was stretched out in the grass nearby. 

“So ehm, thanks for taking care of my angel for me.” It was said conversationally, with no expectation of a response. “Gott’a admit, didn’t see that coming, _ at all. _” He resumed his pruning of another plant, its leaves threatening to overtake the Oriental lilies.

“It’s good to know that if something happens to me, there’ll still be someone to look after him.” Crowley glanced up at the Behemoth, who was watching him silently.

And then, admiringly, “Bloody hell, you came out of nowhere like a fucking savage and _ ate _Sandalphon.” A tail swished in the grass, tongue lolling as he panted happily.

“How’d he taste?” A whine, and Crowley nodded sagely. “As I figured – too salty.”

Crowley lapsed into silence as he fertilized where necessary. As he worked on removing pesky weeds that were trying to invade his meticulously maintained garden, he got lost in his head. Crowley would be lying if he didn’t admit that he wasn’t enjoying Aziraphale’s game, now that he had found out the rules. He had even been finding more reasons to slip out of the room for a bit. It was a sweet return that found Aziraphale back in his arms. He wondered if Aziraphale sensed something different in Crowley that he himself was unable to detect? That would explain a lot.

The back door opened, and Oscar ran inside, bounding onto the sofa. Anthony was not long after. He bent to drop a kiss to blonde curls, then withdrew. Black jeans hung low on narrow hips, his lean torso bare, still peppered with sweat, soil almost artistically streaked across sun-kissed flesh. Anthony brought with him the scent of earth and the sun’s warmth. Long curls were pulled back in a bun, but damp, red wisps framed handsome features. Aziraphale finished his cocoa.

“I’m going to go take a quick shower.” Blue eyes rose to his, and Crowley was certain Aziraphale would have pulled him down onto the couch with him if he hadn’t had a book open in his lap. 

Aziraphale met gold eyes. He smiled. “Alright, love.”

As Crowley sauntered vaguely towards their bath, he murmured, "Something's got into my Hydrangeas. The whole lot of'em are dead." 

Aziraphale had waited for his return, but as time stretched, he had relented. The song was just beginning as he stepped into the bathroom. The man’s voice was deep and velvety, and held a knowing that most humans didn’t possess. It stretched millennia and stirred a familiar, painful ache in his chest. Beneath the music, Anthony hummed quietly.

_ Babe, there’s something lonesome about you, _

_ Something so wholesome about you, _

_ Get closer to me. _

The wall of glass was steamed, affording him only small glimpses of Anthony. The arch of his throat as he tipped his head back into water that fell from the ceiling, sweeping red hair back from relaxed, beautiful features; the slow glide of a hand across his ribs, and then down; the cling of water to dark lashes, the part of lips, and the fall of droplets from the tip of his nose. No human would be able to capture the perfection of Anthony’s beauty. His heart hammered in his chest as he disrobed.

_ Babe, there’s something wretched about this, _

_ Something so precious about this, _

_ Oh, what a sin. _

Crowley turned, steam obscuring his view as a flash of frigid air warred with hot, humid air. Through the fog, Aziraphale came to him, delicate hands cold as they grazed up his spine. Goosebumps prickled his flesh, but he still pulled Aziraphale’s chilled body into him, dragging him under warm rainfall. Their mouths met for a fervent, needful kiss. Aziraphale tasted of chocolate, oak, and caramel, and vanilla. Their reunion was divine ecstasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	26. When The Storm Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

Aziraphale sat at their small dinette, Oscar at his feet. Anthony had decided that he was going to give baking a try today, but sunlight hours had slipped by them. Their bed had been an irresistible paradise, and his wonderful husband had catered to his constant, aching need. _ I don’t deserve him… _it was a sudden, pervasive thought that Aziraphale tried to ignore.

Beyond their kitchen window, it was impossibly dark. Aziraphale distracted himself with the lovely view Anthony presented. Long, lean frame was leaned back against the white counter that glittered gold under the kitchen lighting. He looked ethereally beautiful; a divine being who loved him in spite of his flaws. 

Expressive lips curved into a dramatic frown, fingers furiously gliding over the small device. Aziraphale had suggested a recipe book, but Anthony had proclaimed that there was a near limitless amount to be found on the internet. The sleeves of his silk shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he wore a black apron which proclaimed _ Top Chef _in bold, red letters. His long hair was tied in a haphazard bun out of his face, and Aziraphale marveled at his perfection.

Crowley hadn’t baked before, but there was a first for everything. After consulting his recipe, he returned his phone to the counter. Music poured from the speakers, as clearly as if the song were being performed for them personally. Crowley laid his cooking utensils and ingredients out precisely, a surgeon preparing for surgery. Another peek at the steps – soften butter. He frowned, and then referred to google. Wait ten minutes just for butter to soften? One cup of butter was added to one of his mixing bowls. Buttons beeped as he set the timer for five minutes, certain that if he actually turned it on, it would soften faster.

There was a spark, and a pop. “Ant—“ There was another spark, and a louder pop. He moved to rise, but Anthony gestured for him to remain seated.

“Relax. I’m just cooking butter.” He frowned at the microwave, which was putting on quite the show. 

“How does one cook butter?” Aziraphale tried to refrain from giggling.

“What’d’ya mean?” Oscar whined and yapped, and the paper that the stick of butter was still wrapped in caught fire as if had been given accelerant. No longer was it putting up the pretense of working – the metal filigree on the bowl had fried the microwave. Smoke billowed as he opened the door, and laughter erupted behind him. “Damned thing must’ve been broken beforehand.”

Aziraphale’s giggles were uncontrollable, and only worsened with Anthony’s grumbling that this was why they went _ out _ for food. He was able to compose himself, but only long enough to proclaim, “I-It’s dinner _ and _a show.” His husband looked quite put out by this, which only tickled him further.

He rested a hand on a cocked hip, and he glared, glarefully. Once Crowley had returned to his baking, he allowed himself to grin. A snap of his fingers manifested the butter he needed, _ pre-softened _. It didn’t count as cheating, since he had already killed their microwave.

Aziraphale’s laughter had finally died, and the smile that lingered was content. Oscar’s paws touched to his knees, and he scratched behind a long ear. “Who is our sweet, good boy?” Pink tongue lolled merrily in response. “That’s right. You are.” A kiss was pressed to the top of Oscar’s furry head affectionately.

He was mixing different types of sugar in a large bowl, though he didn’t precisely understand the differences in them. He’d have to look it up later. The song had changed to _ their _song. The volume increased slightly without even a motion at the iPhone, and he quietly sang along. Crowley smiled at the fond memory; their wedding reception couldn’t have been perfected any differently. He had watched an obscene amount of Waltz tutorials on YouTube, but it had been worth every frustrating moment.

_And Judgement taught us that our hearts were wrong, _

_ But they’re the ones that we’ll look down upon. _

Oscar curled into a ball at Aziraphale’s feet. Anthony’s voice was low under the woman’s, a whisper from the past.

_So _ _let’s be sinners, to be saints. _

_ Anthony’s stubble rasped against his cheek, his breath a warm caress as he quietly murmured along. Aziraphale was entranced in the comfort of his closeness and a voice he had known for thousands of years. He didn’t realize that they were circling slowly. _

_ The music swelled, and Anthony swept him into the Waltz. Though he knew only the Gavotte, Anthony guided him expertly, their movements fluid. His heart soared, the stars that angels had hung in the night sky glittering like diamonds through the wisteria canopy. _

_The world may disapprove, but my world is only you. _

_The Spear of Destiny broke through black silk, red and angry with the blood and lives it had already taken. And now it had stolen another. Aziraphale tried to reach for him, God help him, he had, because no, not Anthony, please not Anthony. _

_ But Anthony slipped through his fingers, ashes claimed by the breeze. _

Crowley opened the carton for the eggs; the odor rotten and offensive. He felt the change, the onset of Aziraphale’s panic like an electric current down his spine. Oscar whined.

Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating voluminous, dark clouds that gathered to obscure the bright moon. 

A sob escaped him, and he tried to silence it, a palm smothering over his mouth. Anthony turned to face him, concerned. _ I can't... I can’t… _

His chair clattered as he rose abruptly, gaze flicking first between the exits, to Anthony, and then back again; a trapped bird, frantic to escape. His heart pounded harshly against his chest, and he felt as though he was suffocating. Anthony was coming to him, long legs devouring the distance between them. “_I’m so-sorry, _”

Electricity hummed, and the lights dimmed momentarily.

Aziraphale’s shoulder ricocheted off the wall, hard, though he didn’t feel it. He ducked just past Anthony. 

Another blinding flash of lightning and a resounding boom of thunder. Rain battered the roof of their cottage, and the wind sent droplets crashing into the glass pane of the window above the sink. The lights overhead brightened painfully, and then extinguished -- casting them in sudden darkness.

Aziraphale struggled with the back door, and cursed it angrily, “_Damn you!"_ Someone had pity on him, the lock unlatching, knob twisting. It was left open in his hasty escape, Oscar on his heels.

Crowley was stupefied. He hardly had time to wonder, to question what had happened. He reached, hesitated, hoping he only sought fresh air, _ in this storm? _ He trailed steps behind him, slipping off the apron and thoughtlessly allowing it to slip from his fingers. When Oxfords lost traction on the muddy path in the darkness, Crowley was there to steady him. 

Oscar laid on his belly, front paws guiding him slowly closer to them. He whined, softly, concerned.

“_Aziraphale…"_ It was a quiet plea, because he really wanted to say, _ what the fuck is happening right now? _“Come on, angel. Let’s head back inside. We can talk ab--”

Aziraphale wrenched from the steadying grasp, and whirled on Anthony. He had tried to avoid the argument altogether, but _ of course _ he had followed him. He was breathless, and could feel the heat in his cheeks, despite the icy rain. The anger that had inexplicably welled inside of him now found focus. “You selfish son of a _ b—“ _ Aziraphale tried unsuccessfully not to swear. “— _ bitch!_” Their breaths were accompanied with the white plume of warm air mixing with cold.

Crowley’s fingers found themselves in his tight, wet pockets, and he rocked back on his heels, as if it had been a physical blow. His voice was lighthearted, an attempt to diffuse the situation they had been thrust into. “Angel, I do believe that’s blasphemy.”

Aziraphale drew his shoulders back and lifted his chin. The distance between them was closed, quite nearly nose to nose. “Don’t you _ dare _ patronize me.”

Aziraphale’s anger was palpable. The jagged streak of lightning was followed by another blinding electric current. Crowley was baffled. Helplessly, he admitted, “I’m lost right now, angel.” Blue eyes narrowed on him, and Crowley attempted placating the being he loved with all of his existence. “What did I do?”

“You don’t know?” Anthony didn’t look any less perplexed. Aziraphale’s laughter bordered on hysteria. “How could you not _ know_? You left me, Anthony! You died, and you left me, and it was supposed to be _ me _that died!” He was furious, and the frustrating tears of anger blended with the rain.

They stood close, gold eyes meeting wrathful blue. Soft cheeks were flushed, and his chest rose and fell with his panted breath. Crowley knew Aziraphale, he knew that the anger would pass, and he would be damned if he wasn’t there for the aftermath, to help put him back together. “Aziraphale.” His voice was gentle, coaxing.

_ Iron dripped with his blood, staining the gravel. Not Anthony. Aziraphale wasn’t strong like him, he couldn’t bear the loss. He couldn’t survive without him. Not him, God, please, don’t take him from me. _

“No! You--You… selfish bastard!” 

Aziraphale wanted to shove him. His hands curled into fists at his side, the sudden impulse to hurt Anthony was an irresistible compulsion; a pressing urgency, yet… _ I could never _.

“You took the easy way out, Anthony. You didn’t stare down a lonely, empty… meaningless eternity. You didn’t feel the world being remade around you, life continuing as if it had been but another mediocre day in the vast majority of others!” That day had changed everything for Aziraphale, and left him broken and bereft. “You were just... _ gone... _and... I was alone.” He was rambling, his brow furrowed solemnly. 

Aziraphale clung to the anger that felt so much better than the all-consuming anguish. “I killed you. You didn’t have a choice. I was created to be your inevitable Destruction – oh, pardon me, _ willing sacrifice. _Which is perfect irony, when you consider that my concern has only ever been for your safety. Yet... the sole reason for my entire existence is to…”

_ “He just needed the proper motivation. So I made you. His perfect catalyst to make sure all the pieces fell into place.” _

_His perfect catalyst. _The words echoed in his head, over and over. Aziraphale felt like he was going mad. Lightning flashed across the sky, gold eyes flashing mercurially in the illumination. “… to ensure sure you dutifully play your part.”

He spoke slowly, trying to break through to him. “Aziraphale...” The anger wasn’t dissipating as quickly as he had anticipated. With complete disregard for the rain that Crowley could almost feel freezing the marrow in his own bones, Aziraphale refused to return to the dry warmth of their cottage. “...You didn’t destroy me. Gabriel did. Gabriel _ chose _ to attack us, just as we _ chose _to prevent the end of the world.” A large, black umbrella manifested in the hand he withdrew from his pocket. “I know you’re angry, but let’s go inside.” He pressed the button, opening and raising it in one motion. “I’ll pour us a single malt scotch, and we can figure out what I can do to help you.”

“_Are you watching, demon?_”

_ Aziraphale stared up at seething hatred and anger that shone brightly in lavender eyes. But with Anthony drawn to the forefront of his thoughts, he could accept his own destruction. He had given Anthony time to recover, and he would end this, and save everyone. He was so much stronger than Aziraphale. _

_ He never felt the pain of the spear’s blade. Anthony was suddenly _ ** _there_**_, and the blade had found home in his chest. It erupted from his back, blood spilling down black silk, droplets falling from the blade’s tip – _

_ – not Anthony, please not Anthony, please no, no, no... _

_ Hellfire raced up Anthony’s arms, igniting Gabriel in Hellfire through his unyielding grip on the Archangel’s forearms. Aziraphale reached for him, but the cooling breeze had already claimed his ashes. _

“I don’t need your help!” His voice was panicked, and Aziraphale jerked clumsily from beneath the outstretched umbrella. He stumbled back a few steps before regaining his footing. Frantically, he pulled at his bowtie, and then the first few buttons of his shirt. He gasped, an attempt to catch his breath. The fury was falling rapidly away, and despair was threatening to consume him.

Crowley could see the fracture in his anger, and beneath it, the profound sadness that he somehow hadn’t seen. He should have, and Crowley was suddenly furious with himself for failing Aziraphale. There was more than just protecting Aziraphale from external forces. The ire was immediately doused; he could self-flagellate himself later. He had to help, now, in whatever way he was permitted. “Angel—“ Crowley was abruptly cut off.

His arms jerked up, hands trembling as they hovered over his ears. “No!” He shoved his fingers through his dripping hair, fingers curling, gripping. “Stop calling me that! I have… _ never… _been a good angel, especially now, more than ever.” Blue eyes rose to Anthony, bathed in flashes of lightning that set the garden alight. It reflected in fiery curls that had fallen free of their loose binding, heavy with rain and forming a halo of molten gold and flames around Anthony’s sharply angled features. He was here now, yes, but he could be gone tomorrow. 

Aziraphale burst into sudden, and hysterical tears. “You should have let me die!” He sank to his knees, and as he did, he was suddenly enveloped in Anthony’s strong arms. For a moment, he remained tense, refusing to sink into the comforting embrace. “It was supposed to be _ me,_ not you.” Fists thumped against Anthony’s chest, though there was no true fight to it.

_ The blade tore through his back, wet and dark with Anthony’s blood. And then he was gone. Aziraphale knew the precise moment that he was, because with him, he took Aziraphale’s love, and hope, and happiness, and left him with nothing but utter despair. _

“You left me… you left me alone, and there was a never ending Hell stretched before me that I wouldn’t be able to escape from, because what demon would give me Hellfire?”

Aziraphale’s voice was just barely audible. As he spoke, Crowley stroked one hand over his back, the other holding the umbrella above them. There was a lot to process in Aziraphale’s frantic tirade. _ Alright, no more angel. Easy solution, that. _ But where did he go from there? Crowley couldn’t help but to internally castigate himself for not seeing just how broken his angel was. 

_ Fuck. _ Unable to stop himself, he finally admitted aloud, “You did die, Aziraphale.” Blue eyes that glittered with tears peered up at him, and Crowley tucked him back against his chest, burying his face into beloved blonde hair. He was going to have to tell him eventually. Crowley was slowly learning that perhaps they should communicate – and it had only taken him six thousand years to come to this conclusion. 

“You died, Aziraphale. I didn’t have time to get to you, and Gabriel… he was there. It was…” _ I lost my best friend. _ But it had been so, so much more than that. He couldn’t find an appropriate word, because how could one describe the profound loss of love, that had bloomed in the first seven days of human history, in a concise way? “It was unimaginable.”

Aziraphale had grown still in his arms, his breathing quiet. He was searching through his thoughts, trying to find in them his own destruction, to no avail. “I don’t remember it, Anthony. What happened?” Again, he looked up at him, a frown wrinkling between his brows. He could feel a spark of anger trying to reignite, fueled by a flash of betrayal. He was hurting, and it was because Anthony had intervened, had saved him, the one time he hadn’t wanted it. But when he met gold eyes, Aziraphale found a familiar haunting ache that mirrored his own. How could he condemn him for something Aziraphale himself had attempted to do? He sank back into Anthony’s arms.

“I…” Crowley found that he was clutching Aziraphale protectively and a bit desperately. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go on. I knew I had to save you, because even if I couldn’t be there, I knew the universe would be a dark and dismal place without you in it. So I… I went back, to set things as they were meant to be.” He was full of vitality now, but he hadn’t been when Crowley had taken Aziraphale into his arms, white wings unnaturally still and wet with his blood, his body limp and lifeless. His throat had become uncomfortably tight with emotion, and Crowley had to clear it before he could continue. “God, Aziraphale, I’m so sorry that I left you to endure that.”

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath, and tried to reclaim his composure, but it spiraled out of his control and he was crying once more. He felt too many conflicting emotions, but now he also felt guilt for not realizing what Anthony had gone through. Aziraphale clung to him fiercely, black silk bunched in white knuckled fists, pillowing the sting of nails. “_I’m so sorry. I’ve been absolutely abhorrent with you. Oh, God, Anthony. I don’t deserve you._”

The umbrella still shielded them from the rain, though he had freed both of his hands, cupping Aziraphale’s damp features. “Look at me. I love you, and we’re going to get through this together.”

His grip was frantic, nails biting into bared wrists. “I’m such an idiot, Anthony. I shouldn’t feel as I do when you’re truly here with me, but I can’t make it go away and it hurts too much to ignore any longer.” 

_ Falling had been an inconceivable concept, something tragic and just beyond reach. But this cut deeper than anything Aziraphale could imagine. Without Anthony, the future was bleak and hopeless. It had been a lonely existence before he met Anthony, but he hadn’t known what he could have. Now he did, and the loss of it was unbearable. It was his own personal Hell on Earth, the Fall that Anthony had wanted to shelter him from. _

Quite suddenly, Aziraphale withdrew, scrambling back from him. _ Nothing I do will be able to save him _.

_ Anthony’s glasses were cracked and broken, cradled in his palms. _

Aziraphale rubbed his hands frantically over his thighs, gasping for breath again. “I was created to be your Destruction, and nothing I do can prevent that.” Pleadingly, he looked up at him. Anthony always made everything right in the end. He had to know what to do. “I-I-I don’t know how to save you from myself, Anthony.”

His eyes were wide and frightened when he looked at Crowley, helpless and seeking resolution from him. Crowley wanted to take him back into his arms, but he remained on his knees before him, the ground turned to icy mud beneath them. He offered what little comfort he could provide, because there were no guarantees of tomorrow. “I suppose that… we just have to live as the humans do, and cherish every moment we have together.”

It should have comforted him, but it only hurt more.

_ Aziraphale had been surrounded by love. It had gone in that one pivotal moment, leaving his soul shredded and abandoned. He was a being of love that felt none. It was not similar to a human’s passing, where one could hope to meet their beloved in the afterlife. There was no hope. There was nothing. Anthony was destroyed and was gone forever. _

The intrusive thoughts wouldn’t leave him, no matter the reassurances provided by the only one he truly trusted. Aziraphale buried his face in his hands, his shoulders quivering with his sobs. “_I can’t do this…_”

On his knees, Crowley eased closer to his angel, the umbrella following; hovering above them, and shielding them from the elements. “Come here, my love.” He rested his cheek to wet curls. Crowley’s voice was low, murmuring comforting words that were similar to reassurances Aziraphale had whispered into his own ear, on the days when his self-loathing had become unbearable and he couldn’t fathom how such a wonderful being could love _ him. _ He would hold Crowley, fingers stroking through short red hair, detailing all the things that Aziraphale loved and valued about him, and all the goodness that the angel saw in him. Aziraphale had taught him that he was worthy of love, though that was sometimes forgotten when every molecule of his essence was telling him that he was inconsequential. “Can we get you inside and into...”

Anthony’s voice faded, drowned by the clash of a Hellfire infused sword and the Spear of Longinus. 

_ “...I didn’t think the Spear of Destiny would work on my kind.” _

_ How could he possibly face eternity? Their human friends would die, and Aziraphale would be well and truly alone. Oscar whined, as if he could sense his despondency. Their love had been ordained by God, yet She had not shown herself until after Anthony’s sacrifice, after Aziraphale’s whole world had been inverted and their Earthly paradise had become his inescapable prison. _

Aziraphale withdrew only enough to look up at him, gripping the front of clinging black silk. “Please, Anthony. Help me forget.” There was confusion in eyes that had always been beautiful, whether gold as they were now, or serpent’s yellow. “Make love to me, _ please..._” It would be but a temporary dressing for his emotional wounds, but thus far, it had been successful in keeping the dreadful recollections at bay.

Crowley took a moment to study delicate, lovely features, contorted with an internal conflict that he was all too familiar with. Fingertips caressed over an impossibly soft cheek. “As you wish.” His voice was quiet, pensive, but a crack of thunder was reminder that he needed to get his angel inside and warmed up. He was shivering, and Crowley couldn’t discern if it was from crying or the chill. Rising to his feet, the umbrella bobbed higher as he gently drew Aziraphale up. “To the bath first, ang--my sweet.” _ Fuck. _It was going to be difficult to refrain from using an epithet that had been adopted thousands of years ago. But Aziraphale had done it for him, and Crowley would be damned again if he wouldn’t provide the light of his existence the same courtesy. 

One moment, they stood in the midst of an unrelenting storm -- and in the next, water droplets pattered and echoed as they fell from their clothing, falling to the stone beneath their feet. Anthony’s trousers, as well as his own, were covered in mud. It had splattered his coat, the hem dark where it had lain in wet soil. His Oxfords were nigh on unrecognizable. Tears blurred his vision, and Aziraphale buried his face in his dirty hands. _ What is wrong with me? _

His sobs echoed off the walls, no matter how hard he tried to force them back. Anthony drew him into his body, his voice soothing and soft, murmured reassurances that it was going to be alright. “I’ve ru-ruined our c-c-clothes.”

“Oh an-_ Aziraphale_, you haven’t. Just a bit dirty, is all.” The edge of defined knuckles rested beneath his chin, gently lifting, urging blue to meet gold. Through the smudges of dirt, his angel’s eyes were red and swollen, and still shone with unshed tears. “I will see to it that they are personally cleaned, yeah?” Crowley waited until Aziraphale had nodded at last. “But first, can I help you out of them?” 

Aziraphale nodded once more, wiping away tears with a prim sweep of the edge of his hand. His gaze followed Anthony as he knelt, his hands agile as they dealt with the lacings of soiled shoes. A hand gliding down the back of his calf lifted each limb for shoe removal, his weight balanced with the light resting of his right hand to left shoulder. Wet, tartan socks followed each shoe. For the first time, Aziraphale noticed that his hands were caked with dried dirt, normally meticulously maintained nails, dark with soil beneath them. "I don't know if I'll ever get clean."

Crowley rose, attentively manipulating the buttons of the well-worn waistcoat and pale blue shirt beneath. "You let me worry about that," _ angel _"my sweet." Slipping behind Aziraphale, he was mindful of the tartan bowtie as upper garments were peeled in one go down Aziraphale’s arms. Rather than miraculously cleaning it all then, Crowley placed the garments aside. Aziraphale had always valued the humans’ hand craftings; he would give that a go before resorting to magic. 

Bowing his head, lips caressed lovingly over the exposed nape of his neck. From behind, Crowley slid his hands over soft sides, traveling down the soft curves of his belly. The white undershirt was untucked, his hands slipping beneath the wet fabric to carefully ease it up.

The shirt was peeled away and cast aside. Anthony’s hands were warm on his naked skin, and as he became more aware of his corporeal form, Aziraphale realized just how cold he was. Behind him, Anthony was also wet, and even more clothed than he was. His attention flicked to their inviting bath, steam settled on the glassy surface of the water. “Anthony…?” A gentle kiss was brushed along the juncture of shoulder and neck. Aziraphale shuddered, and sank back against him. While skillful hands deftly worked on his belt and trousers, he lifted his left arm and plunged his fingers into dripping red curls. 

Metal clattered against stone when his pants pooled at his ankles. “Anthony, I…” The apology caught in his throat, not because Anthony didn’t deserve one -- he certainly did -- but because it felt as if he was digging his fingers into a fresh wound. “_I’m so sorry…_” 

Crowley could feel the tension as it stole through Aziraphale’s body, and he frowned. His hands were already covering his face by the time Crowley moved to stand before him. “Oh, a-Aziraphale… there’s nothing to apologize for. I only wish you had come to me sooner.” Aziraphale allowed him to gently guide his arms down. “Whatever it is, I am going to fix this.” Cradling his jaw, Crowley pressed a firm kiss to lips that were pale with cold. “I swear this to you.” 

Though he should have been colder than Aziraphale, Anthony’s body was pleasantly heated against him. The brief feel of his enticingly warm lips was not sufficiently satisfying. “I have been blessed to be with you. I love you so… _ so much._” With his arms coiled around Anthony’s neck, their mouths reunited. 

Crowley broke the kiss with a gasped breath. Aziraphale was bent over the supportive embrace at his lower back. Color had returned to pale features. “Aziraphale, are you sure…?” Being in such a vulnerable state, Crowley remained cautious. He wanted to ensure that this was truly what Aziraphale wanted. “We could get washed up, and I’ll groom your wings while you rest…” Fingertips lightly silenced him.

“I beg of you, Anthony. Distract me from myself.” Gold eyes looked skeptical for only a moment. He relented, taking pity on Aziraphale. The remainder of their clothing was no longer a barrier between them. Anthony did away with them with a resounding snap. A step between his legs urged him back, towards the bath. Aziraphale moved with him fearlessly, his mouth claimed for another kiss. 

Empty air left no resistance beneath his next step back, but Anthony drew him to a halt on the precipice. Their tongues vied pleasantly for dominion. In a single motion, he was spun and Anthony withdrew, stepping back into the water. With joined hands, Aziraphale was assisted down stone steps, until the water lapped at his middle. “_Oh, God.” _ It was a helplessly indulgent groan as he sank to his knees, and submerged himself. He could feel the warmth seeping into his bones, chasing away the malingering chill. The water had darkened considerably around them when Aziraphale rose.

Crowley cleaned the water with a swirl of a hand. Though life seemed to be returning to Aziraphale, blue eyes remained haunted. Had they always held such melancholy since his return, and he hadn’t noticed? “May I wash you?” Crowley had been reclined on one of the benches, but now sat forward, resting elbows atop his knees. 

Lips pursed, considering. There was a heaviness in Anthony’s unflinching stare, and it twisted at his core with anticipation. Aziraphale nodded, perhaps a bit too emphatically. “Ahem, yes.” He laid his palm atop Anthony’s proffered hand, drawn gently between spread legs. With his head tipped back, red curls drifted on the water around them. Strong hands slid up the backs of his thighs, over his derriere, gliding towards his scapula, and where the bases of his wings would have been. He shuddered beneath the touch.

“Hold tight.” When arms were secured around his neck, Crowley flipped their positions, settling Aziraphale near the edge of the stone sette. After slipping from his angel’s embrace, he summoned a bathing sponge and Aziraphale’s favorite _ Rance Gardenia _soap. Once sudsey, the soap was returned to its gold filigree cradle. Before laying the sponge to alabaster flesh, Crowley swept a soft kiss along the curve of his left shoulder.

Beneath him, Aziraphale writhed a bit impatiently, and Crowley hid his satisfied grin against the side of his neck. How often had he dreamt of the day he would be so lucky as to feel the temptingly soft skin beneath his kisses? Lips parted, tongue tasting, Crowley lost to the worship of his angel. Aziraphale’s moan was throaty and delicate. It was one of the most arousing things he’d ever heard, matched only in equal by Aziraphale’s various other erotic noises, be they making love or dining at the Ritz.

It was impossible to keep his hands from Anthony. Palms danced over the ridge of lean abdominal muscles, one arm slipping about his neck to draw him closer, the other resting above the steady beat of his heart. The desire to plead with Anthony that he satiate his desire danced on his tongue. _ Patience is an angelic virtue… _

_ “Crowley chose for himself, Aziraphale. Things might have gone quite differently, if he had not chosen to sacrifice himself for the angel he loved.” _

The Almighty’s words were meant to be reassurance, yet they were a suffocating reminder that with free will, came Anthony’s inevitable destruction.

_ “First you condemned him, a-and… and then you destroyed him. You destroyed him after everything that he had already been through.” _

_ “Careful, Archangel. As of late, there’s a few vacancies in Hell that need to be filled.” _

In his weakest moment, he had questioned God and Her motives. It was something Anthony had tried to foster for six thousand years. But with his questions, had come an uncertainty in his faith of The Almighty. What benevolent being would drown innocents and children, and force one of her own children to give their life to save the world that She should be the protector of?

Aziraphale’s breath hitched near his ear, the trembling gasp a familiar sound. The bench supported his knees as he sat back just enough to look his angel over. His eyes were closed, crystalline tears clinging to dark lashes. _ So much for helping him, you selfish demon. _There was no internal regulation to remind him that he no longer was such an infernal being. His guilt was boxed neatly away for later examination. “Oh, my sweet an--ah, fuck, I’m sorry.” The sponge had long since floated away from them, freeing his hands so wet thumbs could sweep over the lovely swell of his cheeks. How had he missed how devastated Aziraphale was?

There was such worry and compassion in Anthony’s eyes. Aziraphale’s initial instinct was to bring peace to his husband’s troubled thoughts. “I will be fine.” A brow arched. “Oh, don’t look so disbelieving. Ahem, I do believe you were going to kiss me?” _ Please kiss me and silence these demons of mine. _ Their lips met, and Anthony sank into him. He had grown soft, but as their tongues met, he could feel his body responding, growing harder between them. Insufferable thoughts faded to the background, replaced with blissful prayers to Anthony.

Fingertips trailed along the curve of his jaw, and down his throat. As his touch slipped lower, the pad of his thumb caressed over a taut nipple. Crowley drank the groan. His left hand continued downward, slithering between their bodies. There was no pretense or toying to build his need. Aziraphale had already made it abundantly clear what he needed and Crowley had made it his priority to ensure that he got it.

Aziraphale’s spine arched, head protected from stone with a hand cradling the back of his skull. Anthony’s hand was knowing on his arousal, silky in spite of the water. Every nerve ending was set aflame, and his body trembled in responsive approval. 

He devoured the pleasure that chased the grief from beautiful features. “How do you want me?” It was a surprisingly earnest question. Though Crowley was a willing participant, this was for Aziraphale.

The question mixed with the echoing of his ragged breathing in the stone bath. It was hard to focus when it seemed that Anthony was quite determined to bring him to climax. “...S-sorry?”

“How do you want me? My hand?” Lips caressed over his exposed Adam’s apple. “My mouth?” His thumb traced over sensitive slit, then swirled around the flared head of Aziraphale’s erection. It pulsed in tandem with his heartbeat in Crowley’s hand. “My fingers?”

“Am I not to have the option of having _ you _inside of me?” He could hear the quiver in his own voice, though he fought to sound collected. Marathon days spent making love had given him practice in vocalizing what he considered indecent thoughts. “Because that is how I always want you. Filling me ever so completely…” A breath was taken, biting back the moan. His body tensed with the impending release. “I love the feel of you moving inside of me, knowing that my body is the source of your pleasure, as yours is for m--” Aziraphale wasn’t able to finish the sentiment; his mouth was claimed in a desperate kiss. 

His angel’s salacious talk was Crowley’s undoing. His right hand continued to cradle Aziraphale’s skull, the left slipping lower. Slick fingers circled over his sensitive entrance, eliciting a moan. A lone digit slipped inside of him, finding hidden nerves. Hips thrust desperately against his hand as Aziraphale fell apart, finding release. Crowley sat up to watch the vision before him, and nearly succumbed to his own. 

Anthony lovingly guided him through each wave of release, his hand falling away when Aziraphale was spent. It took him a few moments to regain his composure. When he finally looked up, there was such love and affection in gold eyes. It was almost painful to behold. The lump that suddenly rose to his throat was a combination of his insatiable need for his beloved, and the overwhelming, all consuming loss. “I need you, Anthony, _ please…_”

Unable to deny him, yet so very willing to give everything for the angel, Crowley did as he was compelled to do. After lubricating the length of his arousal, he slid inside of him with the utmost of care. Crowley’s hissed intake of breath was echoed by Aziraphale’s shuddering moan. _ God. _Muscles quivered with restraint, head bowing to rest his brow against left shoulder. No matter how many times they made love, his body still hadn’t grown accustomed to the feel of Aziraphale. He hoped it never did.

Aziraphale could feel the glide of his length over nerves that were almost too sensitive, aching deliciously. Left hand braced to the stone ledge behind him, supporting Anthony’s weight. Fingers swept through long, wet curls, sweeping them back from his lovely face. His mouth was a soft caress over skin, which prickled with gooseflesh. His spine bowed, kisses trailing down to Aziraphale’s left nipple. “Oh, _ holy… Anthony…_” 

Between his thighs, narrow hips seemed to thrust home a bit harder. It was suddenly impossible to catch his breath, and tension rippled through him. If he swore with any true vigor, as Anthony did, Aziraphale would have done so.

Perspiration rolled down his spine. Every whimper, and moaned, angelic prayer to him sent stabs of desire tearing through him. At times, it was still surreal that Aziraphale not only loved him in earnest return, but trusted him enough to be so intimate. Why God chose to grace him with Aziraphale’s affections was ineffable, but he was grateful every moment of every day for it. Gold eyes flicked up from the right nipple that his mouth had moved to claim, tongue dancing over pebbled skin. Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushed; a blushing maiden. 

Crowley stretched back up, marveling down at him. “You are indescribably beautiful, Aziraphale.” Already pink cheeks darkened prettily. 

His lips parted to return the sentiment, but they were instead claimed in a kiss. _ Cherish each moment. _Aziraphale curled his left arm around his neck, drawing him down to him, hips rising to meet the next thrust. Anthony growled appreciatively against the kiss. Aziraphale was certain he felt it down in his toes, which curled in response. Between their bellies, his arousal pulsed with need. He could feel that familiar pressure building rapidly. Writhing hips stroked himself between their bodies, and Heaven help him, he nearly lost himself then.

Crowley groaned, breaking the kiss to pant quietly against the shell of his ear, “_have you any idea what you do to me?_”

Aziraphale admitted coyly, “I haven’t.” 

Returning his brow to left shoulder, Crowley murmured quietly against flushed skin, damp from the rising steam and perspiration. “You drive me mad with desire. How can you be a seductress in one moment, and then so helplessly innocent in the next?” Distributing his weight to his knees once more, Crowley slipped his now free left hand between them, curling around Aziraphale’s length.

Thankful for the hand that continued to cradle the back of his head, Aziraphale shifted beneath him, heels pressing painfully into stones. “_Ooh, bless… th-thank you."_ Behind fluttering lids, blue eyes rolled as he reached that unknowable peak and crashed over its edge. Expertly, Anthony guided him through each aching, pleasureable crest. 

Aziraphale losing control beneath him was his own undoing. Crowley stroked them both through their orgasms. By the time they were satiated, they miraculously collapsed into their bed. Though they remained naked, they were clean and dry, Aziraphale smelling of his favorite soap. Bundling the angel in his arms, Crowley buried his face into the soft down of platinum curls. 

Depleted of his strength, Aziraphale gratefully sank into Anthony’s comforting embrace. Before succumbing to the welcoming oblivion of sleep, Aziraphale murmured sleepily against the warmth of his chest, “_I love you, Anthony. More than anything._”**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	27. Revelations in the dead of night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!

_ With a gloved hand, Anthony ripped another weed from the ground, though to Aziraphale’s unstudied eye, it closely resembled bamboo. Anthony scowled at the plant. “Now, I know I told your lot already. I don’t mind your being here, but stay in your fucking spot!” After giving it a shake, he threw the invasive plant into the pile with his brethren. Oscar went to investigate, and deciding it was good enough, he rolled amongst the discarded weeds. _

_ “You tell them, dearest.” Aziraphale murmured, turning a page in Georgette Heyer’s ‘The Black Moth’. Anthony had brought the gramophone outside, and Vivaldi mixed pleasantly with birdsong. Warm rays of sunlight spilled through the leaves of the tree Anthony had positioned the plush sette beneath. _

_ He pulled another offending weed from the ground, holding it aloft to inspect its roots. He sniffed. “I thought the earth was s’ppose to be perfect now. Didn’t have to worry about this shite in Eden.” Beads of sweat were wiped from his brow with the back of a wrist. _

_ He lifted his gaze to study his beloved. Anthony knelt, his profile to Aziraphale, gold serpent tattoo glimmering in the daylight. He looked remarkably tempting in the dark denim trousers that fit handsomely to his backside. Lean forearms were exposed, long, black silk sleeves shoved to the elbows, and out of the way. When Anthony turned to him, Aziraphale softened. Even with Anthony’s profanity, and the way he threatened the plants into submission, the moment was serene. _

_ The sudden, vacuous silence of time grinding to a halt weighed heavily. “Anthony?” The well-read book fell from his lap as he rose, his heart lurching to his throat. Never before had he seen Anthony so still. Panic set his heart racing. Before he could take a step towards him, Aziraphale was stopped with a firm hand on his shoulder. _

_ He turned. Before him stood The Almighty, dressed in blindingly white slacks and dress shirt. “Be at ease, Archangel.” _

_ “M-my Lord…? I don’t understand…” His gaze shifted from God, to Anthony. He remained unnaturally still, not even a curl stirring in the absence of a breeze. Aziraphale wanted to go to him, to breathe life back into him. _

_ “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Aziraphale.” _

_ Finally forcing his gaze from Anthony, he turned to The Almighty. “Yes, we are all well acquainted with that fact.” No sooner had the words left his lips, before a hand covered his mouth in horror. But to his amazement, God laughed. _

_ “I can see why he loves you. Which, admittedly, is the reason for my impromptu visit.” _

_ Aziraphale’s gaze returned to Anthony. The Lord’s tone had grown quite somber. He almost didn’t want to ask, because this certainly didn’t bode well. “Oh?” The Almighty’s attention shifted to Anthony, and Aziraphale followed the glance. Worry was beginning to twist his insides, and the plea that God hurry along with it already, teetered on the tip of his tongue. _

_ “I’m afraid that your fears are credible.” _

_ “My-my fears? What… whatever do you mean?” He laughed nervously, disconcerted under the heaviness of The Almighty’s knowing look. With his hands clasped before him, Aziraphale rubbed his thumb anxiously over his knuckles. _

_ “You’re going to have to choose, Archangel.” _

_ “Ch-choose, my Lord?” It felt as if he was attempting to speak around shards of glass.. _

_ “I’m sorry, My child.” _

_ A strong hand clutched his arm, though it provided little reassurance. Aziraphale could feel his world crumbling around him. “What… what are my options?” _

_ “Together, you both will be blissfully happy. It will be quite beautiful. But Samael will not survive it. You, Archangel, are going to have to choose... between your happiness, and his continued existence. Should you make that choice, I will not bring him back again, Aziraphale.” _

_ “Then why bring him back at all?” After everything they had been through, everything they had risked, everything they had already given up… this is what it came to? “Is this how my faith is to be repaid? You threatening to take him away again?” A trembling, frustrated hand swiped angrily at falling tears. _

_ “It is free will, Aziraphale. You may have one beautiful year with him, or you may have another six thousand… but he will be destroyed permanently.” _

_ “I… I see.” The Almighty cradled his chin to press a kiss to his brow, then was gone. Time resumed, but the illusion of reality and joy had been leached from the pleasant dream. _

The sun and moon had come and gone several times since the night of the storm, and neither had broached the subject. Crowley hadn’t brought it up yet, because he needed facts. He could make a plan with facts, which could also be presented to Aziraphale. And as any modern Fallen Angel Risen Again, Crowley had turned to psychology websites, forums for those whose loved ones suffered mental illness, and the DSM 5. Making love to Aziraphale so thoroughly that he slept immediately after, had become a nightly ritual for them. It allowed Crowley to read the large textbook, until the sun crested the horizon. _ What is wrong with Aziraphale?, _had become a repetitive concern that plagued him at all hours.

Stretched on his left side, Crowley’s cellphone miraculously hovered above the book. The torch provided illumination that he didn’t necessarily need, but which provided focus for his attention. Colorful tabs saved pages that had been marked with yellow highlighter and red ink notations on the margins. Thoughtlessly as he read, Crowley clicked the end of the pen.

Behind him, there was a sudden, sharp intake of breath. It was a quiet inhalation, yet even Oscar lifted his head in concern. His phone was hastily shoved under the pillows to extinguish the light, and the heavy book with all of his work was miraculously returned to the top of a distant shelf. Writing tools returned to Aziraphale’s desk with the same miracle before Crowley rolled over.

Tears had already created wet paths towards pale curls. Behind closed lids, Aziraphale’s eyes shifted rapidly. “Aziraphale?” Frustrated that now even his angel’s dreams weren’t safe, Crowley stroked tracks of moisture away with a sweep of his knuckles. “Wake up, love. It’s just a dream.”

Following the reassuring sound of Anthony’s voice, Aziraphale was able to claw his way to consciousness. When his heavy eyes finally opened, he found gold staring down at him with concern. “_ Oh, Anthony. _ ” The dream didn’t fade, but remained achingly vivid. With an elbow braced beneath him, Aziraphale sat up, and wrapped his free arm around Anthony’s neck, drawing him near. “ _ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. _”

With a supportive hand pressed to the mattress, the left appendage circled Aziraphale’s waist. “Aziraphale, love, it was just a dream.” Crowley spoke quietly, aiming to allay the angel’s fears that were apparent in the way he trembled, and the tears that dampened his bare chest.

Could it truly have only been a dream? _ No. _His shoulder still ached from The Almighty’s grasp. “The Lord came to me… in my dream…” Aziraphale could feel Anthony stiffen in his arms.

God had come to Aziraphale, yet his angel’s body had seemed quite distressed, as if he had been caught in a nightmare. “I take it that the visit wasn’t to give us a Blessing?”

Aziraphale’s laughter was humorless. He lingered for a moment more in Anthony’s safe embrace, before finally withdrawing. “I’m afraid not. I…” He was struggling to fight the utter, all-consuming despair. “She said that I have to choose…” Though he knew he needed to tell Anthony, Aziraphale wasn’t certain where to begin.

Crowley gave Aziraphale a moment, to collect his thoughts. When it was apparent that no answer was immediately forthcoming, Crowley questioned kindly. “Choose between what, Aziraphale?” 

“I… well, _ She, _arrived while I was in the middle of a rather lovely dream.” Aziraphale desperately clung to the last vestiges of what had once been a perfectly acceptable distraction from his constant fretting during waking hours. “You were gardening. It was beautiful outside. I was seated under that tree out there. You know the one? The big one with the-- right, of course you know which one. Well, yo--”

Though it wasn’t out of necessity of time, Crowley quietly shushed Aziraphale. “Sh, sh, sh.” If they were to discuss God’s unexpected visitation, they should do so while it was still a fresh memory. “I love you, and I promise I am quite interested in your dream, my sweet. But perhaps we should discuss the whole… God popping in… _ thing… _ first?” Had _ mother dearest _finally decided that their love for one another shouldn’t exceed their love for God?

“Ah, yes, I do suppose you’re right.” Shifting his position, Aziraphale sat up primly. “Well,” he pulled the duvet modestly over his lap, smoothing the wrinkles from it. His hands shook as he did so. “She said that I have to choose…” Aziraphale drew in a shuddering breath, knowing that once it was spoken aloud, he would have to inevitably make his choice. “...between my own selfish happiness by remaining with you, or leaving you to spare your life.” 

Anthony looked prepared to interrupt, but Aziraphale continued before he could dismiss the whole sordid affair. “The Almighty infuriatingly refused to divulge a specific timeframe, but she said that we would be happy…” He could not meet Anthony’s gaze as he continued, deciding it was best if he focused instead on his hands as they wrung in his lap. “...Until your inevitable destruction. One you would not be resurrected from.”

Crowley couldn’t help but feel bitter anger rising. It was not directed at Aziraphale, though he did bare the weight of his scathing inquiry. “Do I not get a choice, seeing as it’s my life?”

Aziraphale’s gaze jerked up, scowling at Anthony. “A choice? So that you may foolishly choose your destruction? What if we only have a month? Or less? Do you truly believe that your life holds so little value?”

Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s left hand, cradling it between both of his own against his chest. “My life holds no value at all, without you in it. Should I die tomorrow, as long as it is with knowing you loved me, it will have been worth everything. What life has meaning, when it is a miserable, lonely existence?”

Fingertips trailed across his brow, tucking silky, fiery curls behind the shell of an ear. “Who is to say that you will not find greater happiness in the future, if you never get to live to your full potential?”

Fingers curled around Aziraphale’s wrist, halting the affectionate way that he stroked back errant curls. “Why does it always feel as if you have one foot out the door? You don’t get to play _ the nice one, _ while you’re damning me to an eternity of misery.” The moment the words hung in the air between them, Crowley regretted them. But the damage had been done, so he plunged ahead, heedless of the consequences. “Aziraphale, it’s not only about _ you _ . I’m in this too, and though it should be my choice alone, you ultimately get the final say. But my choice will always be you... to _ be _ with you. I’ve waited six thousand years, not for you to allow me to bed you, but for you to allow me to love you. And now you want to take that away?” 

The accusation stung like a physical blow. Guilt suddenly consumed him, tears prickling, and threatening to choke him. His chest ached with the sudden reality that... _ I’m neglecting Anthony. _Certainly, they had spent nearly every waking moment together, but it had been Anthony tending to his needs. There had always been more to their relationship than physical intimacy. Though he had never been particularly social, Anthony had genuinely enjoyed going to the theatre with him, especially if it was a comedy. Too many long nights to count had faded into early mornings, and were spent drinking wine, and discussing whatever fanciful thoughts came to them while Handel, all the Bachs, Chopin, or any other number of composers played on the gramophone. 

Yet selfishly, Aziraphale had been using the distraction of Anthony’s wonderful love making to keep the constant reminder of his probable impending death from the forefront of his thoughts. Aziraphale slipped over the edge of the bed. _ He deserves better than this. _Anthony was a true modern man, and Aziraphale never could seem to keep up with the changing decades. It felt like they were worlds apart. With a grip clutching the blankets around him, the other brushed away falling tears. “You speak as if I prayed to The Almighty for this.”

In that moment, Crowley was immune to the angel’s tears. He shifted onto his knees, an arm flung out, gesturing at the distance that had already been put between them. “It’s bloody convenient that you wanted to leave… however long ago it was, and now you’ve had a perfectly timed dream from The Almighty God, confirming that yes, Aziraphale, yes, you _ should _leave." Through painfully grit teeth, Crowley half shouted, yet mostly growled, his pent-up frustration. "I’m really fucking sick of chasing down someone that doesn’t want me!” What more could he do to prove that he was worthy?

In the following, deafening silence, Crowley followed Aziraphale from the bed. He was beyond the explosive, volatile anger. He had reached a calmness that he hadn't felt since he had sent the _ wannabe occultist _ to see Hastur. "You wanted this, Aziraphale. _ You _ did. I tried to keep my distance, but _ you _ were the one that came to _ my _ flat and begged me to be with you.” With his close proximity, he attempted to fill Aziraphale’s vision, in a bid to force him to look at Crowley as he decided the fate of their relationship. “And then we got married, and it was the happiest moment of my existence. I was allowed to finally love you, wholly and completely, to hell with everyone else. But now it sounds like you want out. What is it, Aziraphale, have I gone too fast for you again?” _ Shit, Crowley, too far. _Internally, he winced at the cruelty of his words, yet his expression remained stoic and impassive. 

Heat crept up his neck, warming his features. His gaze was fixated just over slouched right shoulder, before returning momentarily to gold. “You are well aware how terrible I felt about that day! I was terrified for your safety!” Anthony looked as if he meant to interrupt, but Aziraphale plunged ahead haughtily. “But, _ oh _ , if I forced you into this, then perhaps when you told me our first kiss meant _ nothing _, I should have let this stay dead.”

“Stay dead?” It was parroted in disbelief, the weight of the implication forcing him back a step. For several long moments, he studied Aziraphale’s features, blue eyes averted, refusing to meet his own. Did he truly wish that Crowley had never returned? _ Ouch. _ A shrug freed him of the sting of Aziraphale’s insinuation, and he grunted in disgust. With a sneer, “maybe you should have. Say the word, _ angel, _and I’m gone.”

“_ I _… forgive you.” He could see the fury narrow gold eyes into slits. Aziraphale snatched the remainder of the blankets from the bed. “I--” Before he could announce his departure, there was a brief flash of light as Anthony’s telephone and pillows toppled to the floor. A clatter of delicate metal and already fractured glass announced Aziraphale’s remembrancer, as it tumbled from the heap and skittered across the floor, coming to a stop between them. 

In unison, they bent, though Anthony was there first, lifting them for inspection. “Oh, I… I… I can explain…” Shamefully, Aziraphale took the sunglasses that Crowley had worn during the Battle of Jasmine Cottage, gently, cradling them in his hands reverently. Aziraphale had meticulously and lovingly cleaned them, though he couldn’t fathom why he was unable to let them go. He stared down at them now, and stroked the pad of his thumb gingerly over a cracked lens. His anger was gone, and replaced with the familiar, unshakeable grief that weighed heavily on his shoulders. “No… I can’t explain, because I-I… I don’t know.”

The burning flame of his anger was extinguished instantaneously, replaced with shame. Blue eyes looked pleadingly up at him, glittering with fresh tears. “Oh, Aziraphale. Shit, I…” Unfortunately, he understood the need to have a _ souvenir, _ a representation of love that was ineffably profound. He had collected his share throughout history. But Crowley had never wanted that for Aziraphale. How had he missed something so vitally important? “Aziraphale, I… am so sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that.” What a deplorable husband he had turned out to be. “Please forgive me. I’ve only ever wanted to be with you, and make you happy. Instead, I’m failing you.” His strength abandoned him, and he sank down onto the edge of the bed. Rather than helping his fragile angel, he had allowed his temper to get the best of him. “But I… I’m going to fix this… whotever it is that you need. It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna get through this together.”

“You have never failed me, Anthony.” Though they had been feuding mere moments before, Aziraphale went to him. Beautiful hands parted the blankets he still clutched to himself primly, finding his hips. With his left arm slipping around Anthony’s neck, he settled onto his lap. Aziraphale sank instinctively against naked skin, absorbing familiar warmth. It was a dizzying experience, being cocooned protectively in long limbs and lean body, while he cradled the last pair of sunglasses Anthony had worn before his Destruction. “But unfortunately, you cannot know that we will make it through this.” His voice was quiet, yet it conveyed so much of how he felt -- fear, apprehension, and misery.

When had this dark, ominous cloud begun to obscure his sunny angel? How had he not seen it, or at least felt it? _ You’re failing him. _With a touch of his knuckles to the underside of Aziraphale’s chin, Crowley lifted sad, blue eyes to his own. “You’re right; I can’t know that. But we have our Faith in each other, and in God.” Though it had been God who had come baring enlightenment of his demise, Aziraphale had always been a better angel than the whole lot of Heaven put together; his faith in the Lord steadfast, even when they had stared down the end of the world together. 

Aziraphale’s gaze averted, and he slunk off of Anthony’s lap. A miracle returned the pillows to their bed, and he lovingly replaced his memento under them, towards the back. Soft blue linens pooled around his waist, and with his hands returned to his lap, he rubbed a thumb worryingly over knuckles. _ Faith in God? _Was The Almighty not the reason for their most recent quarrelling and subsequent substantially close separation? The silence stretched, thick and palpable.

Before him, Aziraphale began collapsing in on himself. Crowley’s touch was gentle, fingertips trailing down his spine. “Aziraphale. Please, talk to me. Help me understand...” 

“How can I keep my faith in her when she continues to write your Destruction into all of her Ineffable Plans?” Fingers tangled in blonde curls, tugging. “Every time you leave a room, I’m terrified you’ll never return. At the beach, when you fell? I thought I had lost you again, that Oscar had fatally wounded you. It was an epiphany, knowing how sudden your Destruction could be.” Aziraphale paused only long enough to suck in an unnecessary, quivering breath. “Every time I close my eyes, I see your Destruction repeated indefinitely. The only time I seem to find solace is…” Shamefully Aziraphale choked on the words, smothering his palm to his mouth, silencing his guilty admission. The sudden, muffled sob wracked his body, and he wrapped his free arm supportively around his middle. What a horrid husband he had turned out to be.

Rising to his knees, Crowley curled himself around Aziraphale. When his arms coiled protectively across his chest, normally gentle hands clung desperately, painfully, to Crowley’s forearms. “Oh, ang-Aziraphale, love… I know, and it’s alright.” Since his return, Aziraphale had had a seemingly infinite desire to make love. Now Crowley knew _ why. _

Aziraphale shook his head. “No… no, you deserve to hear it. You have been perfectly wonderful, and I--” He had to take a breath, an attempt to calm the shivers that stole through his body. “I’ve taken advantage of you, making love to you, to distract myself from everything… including my faltering faith.” Aziraphale could feel the sudden tension of lean muscles coiled around him. “I questioned The Almighty, before your resurrection. She made it abundantly clear she wasn’t interested in my regard of her. But don’t you _ see? _You should know more than anyone that there is no reason for her cruelty, Anthony.”

It sounded wrong coming from Aziraphale, the questions. It was a stabbing ache in his chest, learning how truly broken his angel was. Though he would love Aziraphale no matter the circumstance, he wasn’t certain that Aziraphale would survive the change that came from falling, and that wasn’t something Crowley could accept. Aziraphale was beginning to fall apart again, his breaths ragged and desperate. Fingers plunged into pale curls, and Crowley slipped between Aziraphale and the pillows. “Hey, ang-Aziraphale.” Gently, Crowley was able to lower his hands and lift blue eyes. “I need you to take a deep breath with me, okay?” Straightening his shoulders, Crowley demonstrated for Aziraphale, drawing in a breath through his nose, then out through his mouth.

For a moment, it was hard to follow Anthony. Terror was clawing painfully inside of him…

_"First you condemned him, and… and then you _**_destroyed_**_ him. You _**_destroyed_** **_him_**_ after _**_everything_**_ that he had already been through.”_

Anthony was patient and encouraging with his coaxing for Aziraphale to take a calming breath. He did; in through his nose, out through his mouth, shuddering on the exhale.

“There you go. Again.” They took another breath together – in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Tell me what you need, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s exhaled breath trembled again...

_ Gabriel kicked Anthony in the back preternaturally hard, sending him crashing hard to gravel. Black sunglasses cracked and clattered away. _

_ “Are you watching, demon?” _

_ The spear lifted, malicious and threatening. Lavender eyes were full of hatred and anger and that pious, righteous, fanatical belief that what he was doing was God’s Will. Anthony was strong, so much stronger than he. He would end this, and because he was stronger, he would be able to bear the loss of Aziraphale. It was Anthony that Aziraphale thought of in his last moments, but then blood pattered obscenely to the gravel that bit into his knees. The malicious spear had pierced through Anthony’s back. Even in his last moments of Existence, he had ensured Aziraphale’s safety. _

_ Not him, please don’t take him from me, please… _

_ But then he was gone, and Aziraphale’s future of eternal love and domesticity collapsed into a promise of never-ending loneliness. _

“_ I miss him so much… it hurts too badly. _”

…his response was desperate and helpless. “_ I don’t know _.” His breathing was becoming erratic, but Anthony forced his gaze back up, patient in his display of how to control his panted breaths.

Crowley remained calm, and mentally sifted through online articles he had researched. “Tell me what you love about our home.”

Even as the pendulum of his emotions swung back towards terror, he fought to find meaning in a question that seemed out of place. “What?” Anthony was still indulgent as he repeated himself. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, he was allowed a reprieve to truly consider the question. “I love the way our sheets smell of you.”

Gratefully, Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. “There you are. What else?”

Aziraphale’s thoughts see-sawed between the present, and a handful of days in their too recent history that he couldn’t escape. It clung to him like a parasite, eating the sunshine and light inside of him. “Being able to awaken in the safety of your arms.”

Aziraphale was wringing his hands together thoughtlessly. Crowley stilled them, and drew them up to sweep a kiss across the bridge of both knuckles. “You’re doing very well. I’m very proud of you. Can you give me another thing?”

Aziraphale’s thoughts were drowning, yet he fought to continue upstream the dangerous rapids of his flashbacks. “I love the…”

_ “Are you watching, demon?” _

He drew in a breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth, eyes closed. “…the way the sun greets us so warm and bright in the morning…”

_ Aziraphale was drawn slowly into wakefulness, tangled in Anthony’s long limbs, his body warm and inviting behind him. Aziraphale wiggled against him, and sighed in contentment. Anthony’s grip flexed slightly, and he buried his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, his grumbles of, ‘too bloody bright’, and expletives about how early it was, were muffled against his skin. Aziraphale smiled affectionately, and reveled in the lazy morning, love full to bursting inside of him. _

His laughter was quiet and tinged only slightly with hysteria. “You’re so adorably grumpy in the mornings.”

Aziraphale looked up, his smile lingering, blue eyes alight with a joy Crowley hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. It was beautiful, and fragile, and Crowley wanted to cherish it. Aziraphale didn’t have high regards in his own strength, but Crowley saw it, and it was fighting to shine through, sunshine warring against the darkness that had been reigning for too long. His hand trembled imperceptibly, fingers tangling in blonde curls, palm molded to the side of beloved features. His voice was surprisingly light, “I don’t know which I should be more offended over… grumpy or adorable, though I think we can both agree I am neither.” Though the tears had finally ceased, his cheeks were still damp, and Crowley swept a thumb gently and reverently over the moisture.

Aziraphale hiccupped once, delicately, his breath still quivering, though his small smile lingered, fond. Their affectionate banter was so familiar, the reminder of the stolen moments of happiness they had found throughout history. Fingers were suddenly desperate as they curled around Anthony’s wrist. “I’m sorry, Anthony.” Aziraphale could see the instinctive acceptance, but he shook his head. “What I said, everything it… it was inexcusable, and I shouldn’t have ever even considered leaving. I love you, and I don’t want you to give your forgiveness now. I want you to take time... make sure I deserve it.”

Crowley’s forgiveness had already been given; Aziraphale never had to ask for it. But he would respect the request. Though Crowley knew he was enabling Aziraphale avoiding his problems by bedding him, Crowley also couldn’t deny him when his vulnerable angel collapsed into his arms, and sought out his mouth for a kiss. It was mid-morning by the time they collapsed to the bed, tangled together, and slept off their exhaustion; a delicate smile on his angel's lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	28. A guilty pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!  


Aziraphale was settled into the plush sea of pillows,  _ Antony and Cleopatra  _ opened in his lap. Anthony was tending to his garden, or perhaps his inside plants. Aziraphale wasn’t absolutely certain, just as he wasn’t certain which of them had suggested short intervals of Anthony’s absence; a way to face his fear, so to speak. Perhaps neither of them had vocalized it aloud, but had come to a silent, mutual agreement. So Aziraphale had resumed his pretense that everything was perfectly fine, and that he wasn’t so miserable that he couldn’t indulge in one of his favorite pastimes. 

_ Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety. _

The library doors slammed closed behind him with a snap, and Crowley sauntered down the aisle, to their personal nook, fingers in his pockets. Aziraphale was in bed, still in his powder blue dressing gown.  _ I’m failing him…  _ Crowley lounged on the edge of the bed, palm bracing to the mattress to support his weight. “This isn’t working, an—“ Several millennia of a loving name was hard to abruptly stop. 

He smiled, a brittle smile. “What isn’t working, my dear fellow?”

Crowley frowned at  _ dear fellow _ , and the saccharine tone. “Firstly,  _ that _ . You kept it all bottled up until you exploded. So you can cut that shit out, yeah?”

Aziraphale tried for disbelief and denial, though it fell short. The folio was closed and miraculously returned to his desk. At last, he settled on a weak, “Language, dear.”

“Aziraphale. I’m serious.” Crowley’s expression was somber, to mirror his words. But then he continued. “B. You—“

“Secondly.” Aziraphale supplied, helpfully.

“Wot?”

“Nothing, dear. Please, continue.”

“Right. Where was I? O-ah, yeah, you’ve gott’a get out of the cottage, Aziraphale.”

Blue eyes lowered to his lap, and he had to force himself to keep his anxious hands still, to feign indifference. “And why ever do I need to leave? All I care about is right here.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Crowley rested his hand on Aziraphale’s left knee. “You know I’m right, an— _ shit _ , I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I shouldn’t have asked you to not call me that.”

“No, you absolutely should have. It’s what I’m asking you to do. To tell me anything I can do to help.” Crowley tried to reorganize his thoughts, and find the point he had been trying to make out of all of this. “Anyway, I think you need to get out of the house at least three days a week.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “What? Anthony, you’re being ridiculous.” Aziraphale could not disguise his shock. Beneath that was the preposterous, but no less very real fear that something bad would happen if they left the cottage. If they just stayed here, they were safe, not because no one knew where they were, but because they affected nothing outside of the little area they had claimed for their own. They were alone and affected nothing other than each other and surely that would be enough to keep them safe, as long as they kept to themselves. Anthony had been talking, he knew because he suddenly noticed his mouth was moving, but it was hard to hear over the thundering of his pulse. “I-I’m sorry?”

Crowley patiently repeated himself, but as he did so, he reached up to stroke his thumb over a soft cheek. Aziraphale needed this. It was in his best interest. “I said that I’m not being ridiculous. And you need to get out consistently. It’s not negotiable.”

“ _ Three  _ days? I’m not a child, Anthony. This is unacceptable. Honestly, I’m tickety-boo, and we needn’t leave.” His voice was far calmer than the fear that was threatening to choke him.

Crowley remained silent but arched an eyebrow, patient.

Aziraphale relented, but hoped Anthony would forget, or could be distracted when the actual day came. “One day.”

“Two.”

“ _ One _ day initially, and then… perhaps more.”

“Deal.” Crowley slid up the length of Aziraphale’s body, stealing a kiss of soft lips. “And what better time than the present?”

“Oh. Oh, no. I’m afraid that won’t do.”

“Big plans?”

Aziraphale missed the sarcasm. “Of course not. I just don’t… think I’m ready yet.”

“And you won’t be ready next week, or the one thereafter. Come on, we’ll go see book girl and Salamander and Elfie.”

The last time he had seen Anathema had been…

_ A gentle hug, “We’re here for you, Aziraphale.” _

His chin tipped towards his shoulder, hiding the fresh tears that welled. She would be disappointed in him that he was so sad, even now that he had Anthony back. And she would be cross with him for not popping in for tea in…  _ how long has it been?  _ Fingers worriedly stroked his knuckles, a bite to his bottom lip guiltily. What must both Anathema and Anthony truly think of him? Certainly more than disappointment.

“Okay, no rush on seeing them yet. When you’re ready.” Knuckles touched to the underside of his chin, lifting blue eyes to gold. His smile was small but reassuring. “We could go shopping.”

Aziraphale looked dubious. “What could we possibly need that we can’t miracle ourselves?”

Crowley stammered, and he shifted back uncomfortably. “_Weell_… I figure now that things’re different… I could update my wardrobe. Usually I just,” A wave of his hand, “but I-I…” He trailed off, uncomfortably, but then added as an afterthought. “...Yanno, **_f_**_un._”

Aziraphale considered this. He remembered how enjoyable it had been for the fitting of their wedding suits, and he did enjoy shopping. “Alright… yes. But may I… may I give you a coiffure?”

Crowley had already manifested a hairbrush before he spoke, “Absolutely. I would be honored.”

It took a bit longer than intended for them to finally leave the cottage. The repetitious movements and silk of red curls in his hands calmed Aziraphale’s anxiety. The glide of fingers or a brush through his hair and against his scalp left Crowley’s body liquid, and his thoughts temporarily silenced.

Crowley angled the Bentley against the curb, a sign stating that it was for emergency vehicles only.  _ Crazy Little Thing Like Love  _ was at an appropriate volume. Aziraphale was staring out the passenger window, his hands restless in his lap. In the reflection of glass, Crowley could see the way he so delicately bit his lip, his brows furrowed in worry. He wanted to tell him that they could forget about it, and go home. Instead, “Come on, an—  _ buttercup.. _ ”

Aziraphale glanced over at him now, eyebrows raising. “Buttercup?”

“Work with me here,” his tone was only mildly exasperated. “pookie-kins?”

Aziraphale’s glare was withering.

An arch of an eyebrow, and Crowley grinned toothily.

And then, because he was suddenly distracted by Crowley’s hair, he took a moment to admire it. On either side, three plaits were kept close to the scalp, converging together above his ears, a strip of soft red hair loose at the crown of his skull, and cascading down his chest in silky, loose waves. Fingers slid through strands of fire, and he leaned across the seats to fit their mouths together.

Every fantasy he had ever had of him and Aziraphale together in the Bentley culminated in that moment; an endless realm of possibilities. For a moment, Crowley allowed himself to be seduced by the kiss, and the innocent way Aziraphale rested a palm for support on his thigh.  _ Oh god,  _ he didn’t want to stop…

_ Aziraphale’s head was bowed over his lap, leathers hastily pulled down his thighs. Fingers were tangled in blonde curls, and then beautiful blue eyes rose to his...  _

_ Another one bites the  _ dust. Crowley landed with a  _ wumph  _ on asphalt, after having frantically pulled at the door handle and used his weight and gravity to save him. Crowley was unable to resist on his own. “Your arrows will find no purchase here, Cupid!” Crowley pointed an accusing finger at Aziraphale, who had leaned down to look at him. His lips twitched faintly, and a momentary glimmer of light danced behind blue eyes. Crowley found his own mouth mirroring the smile. He would do anything to see another one. Crowley dusted himself off as he rose, then held a hand out to Aziraphale. “Come on, sweet cheeks.” For emphasis, Crowley gave his angel’s bottom an affectionate pat.

His cheeks were instantly pink, and he glanced around hastily. Blessedly, they were alone. And then his gaze shifted to the entrance. The air was unnaturally still around them, and his head fell back, blue eyes raising expectantly heavenward. Aziraphale’s main concern had always been Anthony’s safety, but after The Almighty had personally warned of his beloved’s inevitable death...

_ Something is going to happen… something  _ ** _bad_ ** _ is going to happen, and he’s going to be Destroyed, and I’m going to lose him again. She won’t bring him back, and I will lose him for eternity. _

His breathing had begun to hasten, and he took a step back.

Crowley was there when he went to retreat, his body molded to the back of him, arms reassuring around his chest. He touched the side of his brow to Aziraphale’s temple, his voice quiet and low. “We’re okay. You can do this. I’m so proud of you, look at how far we’ve come already.”

“I’m terrified, Anthony.” He clung desperately to a forearm that crossed his chest, and without realizing, he drew in a breath through his nose, just as Anthony did behind him, then exhaled it through his mouth.

Crowley rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, patient, the area surrounding them unsurprisingly quiet. Crowley was going to allow Aziraphale his privacy, without human interruption. “I know, an – my sweet, but I won’t let anything happen.”

“That is precisely what petrifies me.” Aziraphale turned to face him, a hand curled into the lapel of black coat. He looked pleadingly up at him. “If something happens, I need you to promise that you’ll go, and save yourself.”

Crowley wasn’t certain there had been an instance in their history together that he had ever not acquiesced to whatever Aziraphale wanted. Certainly he had told him ‘no’, but it had been to maintain appearance. Crowley fought desperately with his instinct to give Aziraphale whatever he asked for, and instead gave him what he  _ needed _ . “I would never do anything without having your best interest at heart, Aziraphale. I need you to have Faith in me.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. It felt like the only being he had Faith in was Anthony, but that was best kept to himself. Though Anthony had not given him the promise he sought, Aziraphale had never truly believed he would receive it. Another deep breath, in through his nose, and out through his lips. He could do this. Simple. A palm molded delicately around Anthony’s right bicep, falling into step alongside him.

A hand was light where it was tucked around Anthony’s arm, though the right fidgeted with the worn hem of his waistcoat. Blue eyes were restless around the expansive shop, teeth delicately claiming a corner of his bottom lip. Honestly, Aziraphale was trying very much to keep it together, to put on a brave face for Anthony. But his heart was a bird, his sternum the cage it tried to escape from. Aziraphale knew it was irrational, and that they had been at Jasmine Cottage during Gabriel’s attack, but he couldn’t allow himself to entertain the knowledge that their own cottage was no safer than anywhere else, because he had to have  _ some hope. _

Crowley gently steered them from the main aisle, to the side. There wasn’t much patronage that day, but those that passed seemed to not even notice the celestial beings. “Aziraphale,” His voice was soft and patient, gold eyes catching blue, “Is there anything I can do to help you, or to make this easier?”

Guilt sparred with anxiety, and he dropped his hands with frustrated theatrics. “Oh, I’m sorry, Anthony. I’m being an old silly.” He returned his palm to rest in the crook of Anthony’s right arm, steering them to the main walkway of the shop. Though his anxiety hadn’t abated, his restless gaze was subtle, and he made a conscious effort to compose his features in polite interest. His voice was hopefully earnest when he suggested, “Perhaps we could find you something tartan?” Hopefully, he looked up.

Crowley frowned at the familiar, expectant expression. The one he couldn’t help but give in to. He didn’t get the opportunity to cave.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Is there anything I can assist you with?”

Gold eyes reluctantly shifted from pale blue, his sneer involuntary. And then a winning smile that Aziraphale clucked his tongue at. “Ah! Sales lady! Yes, we need an extraordinary amount of help. You see, I’ve outgrown my goth phase. I gott’a keep the tight pants, though. My husband says he likes the way my arse looks in’em.”

Aziraphale turned many shades of scarlet, his eyes wide in horror. “I-I-I never,  _ never  _ would…” And then, helplessly, “ _ Anthony! _ ”

A brow rose, glossed lips quirking with subtle amusement. “I’ll make a note of it.” The young woman’s gaze roamed striking features, golden contacts, and the fiery braids that reminded her of an elf. A shift of her attention to the husband in question; the delicate upturn of the tip of his nose, the almost feminine softness of his features, framed with downy, platinum curls. They were both ethereally beautiful and her artist’s fingers longed to sketch them. Abbie cleared her throat to maintain her professional tone. “Do you have anything particular in mind?”

“Oh-ah, yeah. I’m looking for a shirt with a three toed sloth, riding a T-Rex, shooting laser beams from its eyes. You know,  _ really _ niche stuff.”

The young sales associate smiled politely. “Ah, no. I’m afraid that we don’t carry anything remotely similar to that here. Perhaps you could order it online?”

Aziraphale didn’t need prophetic powers to know things were going to take a sharp turn. As they meandered through the store, the young woman was quite helpful but quickly grew flustered when Anthony grew bored and exasperated. He began blindly plucking garments and adding it to his growing pile. Aziraphale could understand where his frustration stemmed from, and urged the dear girl to ready Anthony a dressing room.

_ _

_ Remain calm.  _ A deep breath; in through his nose, and a quiet, trembling exhale. The shop was not busy, and everything appeared as it should. Yet his anxiety took great pleasure in reminding him that everything had seemed in order when… “ _ No. _ ” His voice was unintentionally loud, but firm, derailing the thoughts only temporarily. They were quite insistent in their reminder just how empty and bleak life had been without Anthony, and how he would have to live that way for an  _ eternity.  _ The door clattered opened, and Anthony appeared. A relieved, shuddering sigh as Aziraphale pulled himself together.

Crowley was unnecessarily arrogant as he sauntered down the hall. The pants were fitted, but reminded him of 1970’s curtains. The shirt was a grimy shade of beige, both sleeves from wrist to shoulder matching the pattern of his trousers. “Well they fit my arse nicely. What do you think?” A turn, to show off his backside, with a glance over his shoulder at Aziraphale.

He blushed fiercely, and danced between horror and adoration. “Is that  _ honestly  _ what passes for fashion these days?”

“Oh, my sweet summer child, the show is only just beginning.” There was an extra sway to pendulous hips as he went to change.

Crowley posed at the end of the hall in his red gingham suit, a floral pattern embroidered on the black velvet lapel. Beneath it, a neon green turtleneck. In his best James Bond impersonation, Crowley tugged at the cuff of a sleeve. Long, red hair was tossed over his shoulder, sharply angled chin lifted, and he would have made Iman proud as he strutted down the hall like it was his personal runway.

Behind Aziraphale, at a discreet counter, Abbie was refolding and hanging discarded clothing from earlier in the day. She was trying not to watch, but when the elven-like man reappeared, he looked increasingly more ridiculous, and she was quite enjoying the entertainment.

Aziraphale leaned back in his chair, and he found that he could easily overlook the atrocious suit because Anthony was doing  _ that  _ with his body. The tip of his tongue touched lightly to his upper lip, and he sighed. “You look  _ scrumptious _ .”

“Language, an—my little crepe. We wouldn’t want to scandalize anyone.” Crowley bent, silky strands a cascade between them as he stole a kiss. “I’m starting to think I can’t trust your fashion sense.”

“You don’t eat crepes, and my dear, that’s cannibalism.”

Crowley could find no rebuttal.  _ Little crepe  _ was crossed off his mental checklist. “I’ll find one yet.”

Anthony had tried on numerous and even more ridiculous outfits, yet wore them with such confidence that it could almost have sold the products to prospective customers. Fortunately, the store was unusually quiet, allowing Abbie to feign that she was terribly busy, when really, she was quite invested in the Fashion quest, as she had dubbed it. The two were relationship goals, and she made a vow to not settle on a partner that didn’t look at her the way they looked at one another. 

The door cracked, and Crowley called out. “Are you ready for the best one yet?”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No! No, ‘course not. I think I found The One, though.” He stepped out in a fitted romper imprinted with a cowboy cat, riding a great white shark, vomiting a rainbow, in outer space. Hollowed cheeks appeared all the more gaunt as Crowley pursed his lips, chin lifted. With fingers tucked into pockets, he slunk down the narrow hall in his mid-calf black socks. Aziraphale sat, ever so primly, and Crowley’s thoughts turned inappropriate. He shelved it for now. Left hand to hip, Crowley struck a pose in the face of his angel’s laughter. “You laugh because you are overcome with desire.”

It took him a moment to recover, and he could only do so with a palm covering his eyes. “Oh, good grief, Anthony.” His hand fell away, and he erupted into giggles again. “The  _ socks  _ truly pull it all together.”

“Perfect, I’ll make sure to have them on when I wear this to the Ritz.”

The smile fell away, returned apprehensively, and then faded again. He was aware that he was teetering on a fine line. “I believe they have a strict dress code.”

“They won’t know why, but on that particular day, their dress code will be free for all.”

Abbie found that she had meandered closer, openly gaping at the ridiculous ensemble. “Mister, where did you find that?” Suddenly, both gold and blue eyes were on her.

Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, Crowley waved vaguely. “ _ Eh,  _ yanno, I picked it up off the shelf.”

Dubiously now, Abbie insisted. “But I’m  _ certain  _ we don’t carry anything even remotely like,” She flapped a hand at him, “ _ that,  _ here.”

“Well, perhaps you should.”

She was left even more baffled than before when he sauntered fluidly back down the hall.

They stood outside of a different changing room. Anthony’s hands were on his shoulders, and he frowned up at him. Glibly, Aziraphale reasoned aloud. “This isn’t necessary, Anthony.”

“You’re right, it isn’t necessary. But I’m asking you to do this for me, Aziraphale, and to keep an open mind.”

He was frowning again, but it wasn’t directed at Anthony. That was how he had found himself standing, alone, in front of the room’s mirror. Anthony so rarely asked anything from him, and gave Aziraphale the world selflessly. Fingertips trailed over the well-worn hem as he looked over his antiquated clothing. 

_ The jeering of the crowd and fall of the guillotine’s blade filtered through the barred window. The chains rattled, and he sighed. Aziraphale sat ever so primly, his every movement gracefully feminine. He felt resplendent, even in the dank cell. And, Heaven above help him, Aziraphale could scarcely contain his excitement at the prospect of seeing Crowley. He had heard that there was a Revolution, and while he knew, deep down in a place he dared not look too closely at, that Crowley had no personal hand in the matter, he knew that he would be there. And because he knew Crowley would be there, Aziraphale had wanted to look sublime… because he had standards, after all. Not because he cared what Crowley thought. _

_ But then things had taken a turn he hadn’t anticipated. Aziraphale stumbled over his French with mild exasperation. And then the Executioner began boasting of his terrible accomplishments, and Aziraphale tried to explain that he had played no part in the French’s suffering, and had merely needed an excuse to see Crowley, and it was just a misunderstanding, and did he know how much paperwork this would cause him? Thick fingers grazed his nape, and his skin crawled as he jumped to his feet. He was losing control of the situation, and knew he was growing tetchy. _

_ And then  _ ** _his _ ** _ voice. He could feel himself brighten; pure, unadulterated joy, “Crowley”, relief and that unidentifiable emotion he couldn’t examine too closely. And when he turned, there he was, dramatically lounged in the window sill. He tried desperately for admonishment, but his voice held such profound fondness. Blue eyes raked him, admiring the deep burgundy coat, the shiny silver of buttons against black, and his heart hastened in his chest, just as it did every time he saw Crowley. _

_ Their lunch had been purely social, and Aziraphale was reminded how much he truly enjoyed Crowley’s company, how many similar things they shared, and didn’t that mean that they weren’t that different after all? _

Then… 1862. Aziraphale could acknowledge that his fashion had stalled. Certainly, he had made minute updates periodically, it was hard not to be influenced by the humans around him in subtle ways.

“You okay in there…?”  _ Angel  _ was left unspoken, but punctuated the question nonetheless.

Aziraphale checked his pocket watch. He hadn’t realized that nearly an hour had passed, or that his cheeks were wet. Aziraphale’s biggest fear had always been harm or destruction befalling Anthony. A shuddering breath. “Ye—“ He cleared his throat. “Oh, what is that endearing American phrase? I’m peachy keen, Anthony. I’ll be right out.”

Crowley was seated where Aziraphale had been. The human girl behind him was lingering at the counter, though she obviously had nothing to do. He had already deemed her harmless, so he permitted her to hang around her work station. The door down the hall finally opened, and Aziraphale stepped out, his hands clasped before him, uncertainly. Crowley instinctively rose, jaw slack. The powder blue cardigan brought out the blue of his eyes. Beneath, he wore a pristine white shirt, and his tartan bowtie. And then, God help him, Crowley’s gaze dropped. The pants were almost  _ obscene _ . “Give us a twirl, an— _ fuck-I’m-sorry, _ ” Crowley stammered over his words, voice rough, flustered, but Aziraphale obliged, turning slow. Crowley had to bite his lip. His baggy pants that typically hid curves were presently replaced with a pair of tan trousers that gently fit to thick thighs and plump backside.

The silence stretched as Anthony gaped at him, a familiar, hungry look. Aziraphale blushed under its intensity, and awkwardly ran his hands down the sides of his thighs. “I think the trousers are a bit much.”

“I cannot accurately explain just how right they are.” Crowley prowled around him, his gaze voracious, then stopped before him. Palms slid down his sides, the sweater lightly molded to the soft swell of his belly. “You look amazing, Aziraphale.”

He couldn’t look directly at Anthony without blushing furiously, but Aziraphale did cast a sidelong glance, and a coquette smile. “ _ Oh _ , Anthony.”

As the red haired man suggested ice cream, his husband smiled with such joy and love that Abbie was suffused with soothing warmth that lasted three days. Hands laden with bags, they did as they had done throughout history and inspired another artist. 


	29. A snake in the hen house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!  


Aziraphale had started the movie off with a book in his lap, but had soon turned to devote his attention to _ Julie & Julia _. They sat curled together on the plush sofa of their theatre, quiet, Aziraphale enraptured with the characters on screen. When the credits began rolling, he turned to Anthony. “Oh, I quite enjoyed that.”

Even if Crowley hadn’t already seen the movie before, he would still have watched it the same way – by watching it through Aziraphale’s expressions. It made it infinitely better. “As did I.”

A hand rested atop Anthony's thigh, and he smiled hopefully. “Can we practice baking again?”

Crowley couldn’t have told him ‘no’ even if he had wanted to.

“This could get messy.” An apron was looped over Aziraphale’s neck, and as Crowley tied the loose strings around his waist, he had to bite back his grin.

_ The Best Thing I Ever Ate _was written in sapphire cursive on the pale blue fabric. “Anthony. I cannot wear this. It’s inappropriate!”

As he slipped his own apron over his head, _ Top Chef, _ Crowley feigned indignation. “Why Aziraphale, _ I never. _You should get your head out of the gutter. It’s a show on the telly.” Aziraphale did not look convinced, but he couldn’t dispute it, either. Crowley tried to hide his grin as he consulted the recipe on his phone. “Do all microwaves explode on use? Must do. It’s why the step isn’t included. Everyone knows it.”

Aziraphale allowed himself to appreciate the moment. Anthony sat on an empty space of counter, long legs splayed. He looked ever so handsome. His hair was pulled back from his face, and his brow had a wrinkle of concentration as he read, taking the whole matter quite seriously. This could be their eternity, _ or at least until Anthony’s inevitable Destruction, _if he would only get out of his head and allow it. The sun was still high in the sky, filtering in through the window, warm and inviting, and Anthony looked more relaxed than he ever had before his… “I could melt the butter on the stovetop?” he supplied, helpfully.

Crowley slipped from the counter, and placed his phone aside. “Genius!” A quick, stolen kiss, but angelic features turning wistful gave Crowley pause, waiting for the next emotional wave. Instead, a small smile curved his lips, and Crowley strengthened his resolve to do whatever necessary to return joy to his beloved angel.

While he stood at the burners, melting the butter, Anthony set the temperature on the oven and prepared the cookie sheets.

Crowley theorized aloud. “Seems to me, if we increase the temperature of the oven, it’ll decrease the cooking time.”

Aziraphale frowned, and shook his head. “Do you think an oven will be a bigger explosion than the microwave?”

Crowley considered this, and put an unnecessary amount of thought into just how big the ensuring explosion would be. Would it take out only the kitchen, or additional rooms of their cottage? “And that’s… _ bad. _”

Aziraphale carefully stirred the Very Precisely and Accurately Measured cocoa powder, flour, baking powder, and salt that Anthony added into the small bowl.

As per step four…

He had modified step three because he added the granulated sugar and brown sugar with the other dry powders, and what did it matter where they were added in at?

Crowley dumped the powdery confection atop the single egg, vanilla, and Aziraphale’s melted butter. Though the step said to set it at medium, he assumed _ high _would certainly blend everything more thoroughly, so he cranked the dial. It backfired spectacularly, the flour and sugars coating him from hair to chest. Crowley growled in frustration, and the gratingly loud mixer died with a pop and plume of black smoke issuing from its motor.

Initially, his eyes were wide as saucers, stunned. But then there was silence, and he attempted to bite back a giggle, but he couldn’t. Aziraphale tried earnestly to feel terrible about it, especially when Anthony turned to face him, powder swirling around him. But it was quite charming and endearing. His brows raised, and Aziraphale fought to hide his laughter behind a façade of innocence. He failed, and doubled over in giggles, pressing a delicate hand to his middle.

It was everywhere, and if his lungs needed to work properly, he would have suffocated by now. A hand waved, dispelling airborne flour without miracles. He grinned as Aziraphale laughed. He waited for it to subside, his hip cocked against the counter, and his arms folded over his chest. His angel straightened, grinning still, hands fluttering to his bowtie. “Are you quite through?”

He was still covered in flour and sugar, and Aziraphale bit his lip, nodding. He could feel amusement stirring again, _ and it felt so good_. He welcomed it. To Aziraphale, Anthony could have been Edmond, from _ the Count of Monte Cristo_, yet then there were these precious moments, where Anthony was even dashing when he was a mess. “_No. _” Aziraphale was able to recover from his laughter more quickly, though he was still smiling when he took Anthony’s hand. “Let’s get you in the bath.”

Even though they had magic, Crowley allowed himself to be led from the kitchen, which was cleaned with a backward glance over his shoulder.

They sat entwined on the lounge in their large, Romanesque bath. The shift of water echoed off stones around them, the air slightly fogged with steam. Droplets of moisture beaded on his skin. Anthony was settled between his thighs, his head resting on his stomach. Red curls were already clean of their baking adventure, but both were enjoying the feel of Aziraphale braiding his hair.

His voice was quiet, relaxed, and though he was mostly still, he trailed his fingertips down the outside of Aziraphale’s right knee. “Maybe we should go to a cooking class.”

Aziraphale smiled at the whimsical suggestion. “Could you imagine? It’d be lovely.”

“So then, let’s do it_._” He remained impassive, fingers continuing their idle caress along soft skin.

He paused, only for a moment, and then finished the braid. He hadn’t thought Anthony was being serious. “That’s ridiculous. It’d be a complete nightmare.”

“It’d be **_f_**_un._” He enunciated to get his point across. “Come on, Az—“ There was that Heavenly crackle of electricity, dancing over wet skin. They both turned as an elderly gentleman suddenly appeared, standing atop their bath water. He was dressed in a crisp, Heavenly white suit, and had well-groomed, snowy hair and beard. “Oh, _ bugger off! _”

“Archangel Sa—“

“Do _ none _ of your lot know how to use a _ bloody door? _”

_ Patience. _Metatron folded his hands calmly before him. “Archangel Sa—“

“It’s damn bloody rude, if you ask me.” Aziraphale’s nails bit into his bicep. Crowley had already subtly shifted them, placing himself between the Heavenly messenger and his angel.

A breath. “Archangel Samael. Archangel Aziraphale. You are summoned for a meeting of the Archangels that will commence shortly.”

_ Not good. _ “W-well we must respectfully decline such a-a… _ high _ … ahem, that is to say _ p-prestigious _offer…” Aziraphale faltered. Familiar panic was threatening to choke him.

“Exactly. We’re gonna have to pass. I imagine you can see yourself out.” Crowley didn’t relax yet. He watched the Metatron, who stood unmoving, but looked exasperated.

“I’m afraid you cannot decline the summons. It is from The Almighty.” Archangel Samael looked as if he intended to speak, so Metatron added, even more put-upon. “The Almighty advised me to tell you, Archangel Samael, ‘_don’t make Me come down there.'"_ Metatron blinked out of their bath before anything additional could be added. He had delivered the message. They could do with it as they wished.

He turned to Aziraphale, the panic written stark across pale features. “It’s going to be alright. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Aziraphale was trying to calm himself, and failing. Anthony’s reassurance was only fuel for a threatening inferno of anxiety. “Not helping! That’s precisely the point!”

That damned static, and Crowley turned, the Metatron coughing discreetly into a fist. “My apologies for _ popping _ back in unannounced once more,” Another annoyed expression. “But The Almighty has bade me to let you know that a _ memo _has been sent out, stating that no harm shall come to either of you, from Heaven and Hell alike.”

Crowley gave it another moment. When he was certain that the Metatron was gone, he turned to Aziraphale. “I won’t let anything happen to me, either.” He wouldn’t give his angel the responsibility of his life -- not now, knowing that it had an expiration date.

They stood outside of the main entrance to Heaven and Hell. He drew to a sudden stop. Aziraphale’s anxiety was beginning to ratchet up to panic. He turned to Anthony, pulling at his sleeve. “Let’s run away to Alpha Centauri. Lots of spare planets up there. Nobody would even notice us.” He stared pleadingly up at him.

They had taken their time to style Anthony’s hair, two smaller plaits braided on either side of his head. The remainder of his hair was left free to be pulled back with an elastic band. While they had dressed at home, he had been able to believe that things would perhaps be alright. But now it was _ real _and terrifying.

Knuckles swept slowly and affectionately along a soft cheek, trying to soothe the worry that wrinkled his brows. “Aziraphale,” his voice was infinitely gentle. A reminder that running away was never a good plan, “you’re being ridiculous.” A kiss was buried in the soft halo of blonde curls, and then Crowley flashed a winsome grin. “They aren’t _ complete _ imbeciles as to do anything directly under God’s nose.” _ Again. _But the first rebellion hadn’t turned out in Lucifer’s favor. “Let’s go make’em sweat a little,” a bite to the side of his tongue forced back a pet name that was almost as old as the beginning of Earth, Crowley instead interjected, “dollface.”

Aziraphale slipped his hand into Anthony’s. His fears and anxiety temporarily allayed. “Dollface?” His tone was dubious as he followed Anthony through the rotating door, his gaze dropping to admire the fit of white trousers over his husband’s behind. When he lifted his attention, he found Anthony cocking a knowing eyebrow over his shoulder at him.Warmth crept into his cheeks, and he coyly averted his gaze.

“Enjoy the view, did you?” Crowley grinned mischievously as Aziraphale blushed, his expression horrified at being caught. A hand to his lower back guided Aziraphale to the escalator before him, then stopped. Crowley was dressed in what he had dubbed _nerdy__ chic_. Essentially, what he presumed Heaven expected of _ respectable _angels. While getting ready, unhurriedly, he had been undecided between a slender white tie or cravat. Crowley had been delighted with Aziraphale’s suggestion of a bow tie. He hadn’t worn one since his time as a nanny, and Crowley quite enjoyed allowing Aziraphale to patiently tie it. “It’s going to be a real rave-up.”

Aziraphale didn’t precisely know what that meant, but it couldn’t possibly be good. Anthony was dressed theatrically, and even though he knew why, he still wished that his beloved didn’t feel compelled to put up a façade. Aziraphale fidgeted absently with his new attire – lifting his chin to straighten his bowtie, and tugging the sleeves of his jumper precisely into place. An old habit he had fallen back into. It was almost inconceivable that Gabriel wouldn’t be there. Though, there was no telling that to his racing heart. His breathing quickened, and he felt a bead of sweat disappear down the collar of his shirt. _ I can’t do this_. He turned to bolt, but Anthony stood in the way of his escape.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He gripped his biceps, then caught his chin to bring blue eyes up. “It’s going to be alright. I will be with you every step of the way, and _ we _ are going to be fine.” Aziraphale nodded, as if in agreement. There was the slightest quiver to his bottom lip and uncertainty in his eyes. Crowley wanted to take him home, but he had faith that God knew just what the hell They were doing, that They wouldn’t demand Aziraphale and Crowley return to Heaven on whimsy. “How about this… you do me a favor, by giving this a go. If at any point you feel it’s still too much, we’re out. Fuck all of them. We’ll use a secret safe word, yeah? Like brioche, or whotever.” His thumb swept lovingly over the soft swell of pink lip, stilling its tremble.

He closed his eyes, and tried to regulate his breathing. It did little to calm his rising panic, and fluttering heart. Aziraphale looked helplessly up at Anthony, and mirrored the breaths that he was reminding him to still take. In through his nose, out through his mouth. _ I love listening to Anthony sing as he showers. I love walking on the beach, and watching Anthony and Oscar play. I love the sound my wedding band makes when I pick up my favorite mug. _He could do this. His chest felt lighter now, and he was no longer suffocating. They had an escape plan in place should they need it. “Yes, that sounds perfectly reasonable.” Aziraphale’s smile reflected his relief and appreciation, because Anthony was always so wonderful.

“What word do you want to use?” Crowley tried _ not _ to spin this into an undercover spy operation, but his imagination was whirring with possibilities.

“I thought 'yeah' was the word?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow in confusion.

Crowley pushed up gold framed, clear lensed glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Th-N-ang-“ A deeply exhaled breath, resyncing mind to mouth so that he could formulate coherent words. His angel was equal measure adorable and frustrating. “I was thinking _ – Gabriel was an insufferable prat. _”

Aziraphale pursed his lips delicately, thoughtfully, considering. How would he work that into a conversation? Was he supposed to blurt it out in the middle of the meeting? “Do I whisper it in your ear?”

Crowley groaned quietly, but put a hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, guiding him up slightly, pressing their lips together firmly. When they pulled apart, he growled low in his throat. “_I love you. _”

He could feel the heat of his cheeks, and when he touched his tongue to his lips, he could still taste Anthony. He wasn’t certain what he had said to earn that reaction, but he smiled, nonetheless pleased.

“How about something easy? Crepes. Whenever you’re ready to go, whisper to me _ crepes. _Is that clear, Aziraphale?”

“Oh yes, quite so.”

And then, just to be sure. “Aziraphale, what is our safe word?”

“Crepes.” But then he was turning back towards their destination, with an involuntary smoothing of wrinkles from his clothing. Aziraphale took a single tentative step, and boarded the escalator. Anthony was there just behind him.

“I’m sorry, Hadraniel is out of the office, but I can transfer you to their voicemail to leave a message. Please hold.” Emily stood at one of the Fancy, _Modern_ desks that Gabriel had insisted on before his Folly. _Sitting is bad for you, _he had said, as he took her desk chair. He had also said that it would add to the atmosphere if her desk was situated in an ‘inviting’ nook of stark white walls. The one directly behind her proclaiming HEAVEN in gold, capital letters just above her. 

The sleek, white phone lit up with a pulsing golden glow, and Emiliel, _ ‘Just call me Emily’_, answered it with a thickly sweet tone. “Thank you for calling Heaven, please hold.” She transferred the call to the Celestial Prayer helpline.

Archangel Auriel paused alongside her desk, dropping a memo into Emily’s inbox. It knocked over her name plate – _ Emily, Heavenly Receptionist_, which she righted. “Emiliel, my afternoon is booked for this Archangel meeting. I’ll need you to finish the Cherubim schedule for me. It has to go out today and I didn’t have time to get to it. Remember what happened last time it was late for them? God didn’t have a secretary for a week, Emiliel. A _ week_.”

Emily donned her professional smile. Auriel had had nearly a month to finish the schedule, and even though the meeting was going to start quite late now, she knew Auriel had put forth no additional work into it. “Of course, Arch—“ An unfamiliar sound echoed from the escalators_. _

Behind him, there was a loud _ fwoop, _and Aziraphale turned. Anthony’s Heavenly wings had unfurled, each pristine feather flecked with gold. He shook them out behind him. Anthony looked positively radiant, garbed mostly in white – white trousers that fit to lean thighs and pert rear, snakehead belt, Oxfords, and a coat that was tailored specifically for his lean frame. His lavender, long-sleeved dress shirt was a pop of color, tapered ends peeking beneath the hem of the sweater vest. His bowtie was gingham, in a darker shade of purple. Constellations were a glittering gold across his handsome features, and his eyes seemed brighter; a molten, luminescent gold. If any humans saw him then, they would have made him their new golden calf. Aziraphale couldn’t wait to return home and dutifully worship his beloved husband. As they reached the peak of the elevators, Aziraphale’s expression was angelic reverence and love when he turned to face the lobby. 

Emily darted up from her desk, hastily smoothing her hands down her pale pink, pencil skirt while she opened the glass door to shout excitedly, “_They’re here!” _ Emily was familiar with the kindly angel Aziraphale from the numerous times he had popped in for meetings with Gabriel and company. Inexplicably, Gabriel had made Aziraphale wait unnecessarily long before each conference; and there were no chairs for those that waited for their appointments. That had given them ample time to discuss the foreign planet, so far away from the desk she would man for the remainder of eternity. 

Gossip had begun the day of the Botched Execution, about the angel and demon that had _ gone native_. It had begun as a dirty word, but Emily had been secretly relieved to know that no harm had befallen Aziraphale. Then they were to marry, God their officiant, and perception shifted. Emily had been overjoyed when she had found out that Aziraphale was to wed the then demon Crowley. His face had always lit up with such obvious affections when his adversary was brought up.

The Archangels had become legends. When the office angels had discovered that they were to come for a mandatory staff meeting that day, not much work had been completed.

Emily returned to her desk, nearly bursting with excitement. Her hands fluttered to her nameplate, and even though it was already perfectly in place, she made one last quick adjustment. Brown hair was tucked behind her ears, and she swept her hands over the soft silk of her white blouse. This was the most exciting thing that had happened in so long. When Aziraphale finally reached the peak of the escalators, Emily gave a nervous giggle, as if she were meeting celebrities.

Blonde curls were a halo around his face, blue eyes bright under Heaven’s light. Behind him, his resplendent white and gold wings spread wide. He stepped off the escalators.

Too many angels were staring, and he felt that they could see into him, the failure that he was, his flaws bared, for all to see. His breath caught. Their focus shifted from him, and Aziraphale could breathe again.

An Oxford stepped from the escalator, and theatrically, Crowley stripped his jacket off, mindful of his wings. He tossed it over a shoulder, held with the crook of a finger. The black diamonds of his ebon wedding band sparkled in too bright lights. “Hey angels, it’s me, ya’ boi, Samael!” And then shamelessly in a loud, tone-deaf, and obnoxious sing-song-y voice, “I’m _ back! _” Crowley raised his right arm to point at someone in the far end of the gathered crowd. “Uriel! Dude! I haven’t seen you since…” Crowley trailed off, trying to remember, and then he snapped in recognition, “Oh yeah! Since you tried to kill me and my husband! Great seeing you! We should catch up sometime!” Crowley draped a lazy arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders, and tucked him into his side. “Lunch on me.”

“Alright. Show’s over. Back to work.” Archangel Jophiel and Sariel reigned in the disrupted workflow.

“I’d rather eat Hellfire.” Uriel sneered at the obnoxious pair, then blended with the dispersing group.

Leliel slipped through the crowd, their destination the arrival of New Eden’s representatives. The Assistant to the Regional Archangel could have been male or female, their features as flawless as porcelain. Long, straight black hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of their neck. Already prominent cheekbones were highlighted further with expertly applied golden contouring, full lips shimmering with clear gloss under the garishly bright lights. Their suit was a light shade of beige, and accented with white lace at the sleeves and throat of the shirt beneath.

Anthony was his anchor, claiming all of his attention to root him to the present and keep his paranoia locked away. “Your tie.” His beloved turned to him, chin expectantly lifted so Aziraphale could meticulously straighten the purple gingham fabric. “There,” Hands smoothed appreciatively down his chest, blue eyes finding gold. “Perfection.” His gaze flicked to Emily, and he smiled. He wanted to take Anthony to meet the only angel that had shown him kindness. They were intercepted.

Leliel stopped before the pair, clearing their throat politely. Their voice had a delicate, nasal quality. “Archangels, if you—“

Crowley held a silencing finger up, “Rude! It is,” a glance at his usual watch face, the band a pristine white. “2.16pm. For Heaven’s sake, do you know what that means?!” He paused, waiting for a guess. None came. Crowley frowned in mock disappointment. “It _ means _ that it’s the anniversary of our first kiss! We must kiss every hour, on the hour.” His head bowed.

Fingertips pressed gently to Anthony’s lips, halting his kiss. “But that… doesn’t make sense?”

Leliel glanced over at Emily, who was watching with rapt fascination, her chin cupped in her palm. It was a look that pleaded for help. Emily held her hands up in a gesture of _ you’re on your own. _Leliel cleared their throat, growing concerned. Their responsibility was to show the Archangels to the boardroom promptly upon their arrival. “Archangel Aziraphale, Archangel Sam—“

“It doesn’t matter if it makes sense, Aziraphale. I was making a jab at how expendable their time is to us, but the joke isn’t funny when I have to explain it.” Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile after the explanation, and damned if it wasn’t such a wholesome, sweet smile now that he was in on the joke. Aziraphale finally nodded and Crowley stole a brief kiss. Aziraphale swayed imperceptibly towards him. A thumb slid along a soft cheek as he blushed prettily, and Crowley momentarily forgot they had other responsibilities.

“_Please _, Archangels, if you will follow me, I shall show you to the boardroom.” Leliel’s pleading eyes were as dark as emeralds.

Aziraphale and Anthony took pity on the angel at last, and fell in synchronized step behind them. Fingers laced together, and Aziraphale reveled in the feel of his nearness. It felt unbelievably _ right _to have Anthony with him, and not have to face this alone. The content smile slipped from his lips; they had stepped into an enormous, open floor plan office. Silence, as every gaze fell upon them. Aziraphale missed a step. Anthony’s strong grip on his bicep helped maintain his balance.

A deep breath was drawn in, trimmed nails digging into the back of Anthony’s hand. Aziraphale had come too close to losing him for eternity, and here he was, selfishly risking his beloved’s existence; for what? _ Crepes _ danced on the tip of his tongue, his fear very nearly suffocating. _ It’s a trap, this is a trap, God warned us… _

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice was low, and laced with concern. Placing himself between his angel and the others, his wings curling around them, providing them privacy. “You have been very brave coming this far, but if you need to go, say the word.”

Anthony filled his vision, blocking out the unfamiliar faces. Fingers curled into the soft fabric of his vest, grounding himself. A shuddering breath through his nose, then gently exhaled on trembling breath. “No… no, I’m alright, now.” His anxiety was still present, trying to demand attention, but Aziraphale was able to temporarily conquer it with Anthony’s reassuring proximity. Aziraphale wasn’t certain how convincing his smile was, but by the look his husband leveled on him, it wasn’t fooling him.

Reclaiming Aziraphale’s left hand, Crowley folded his wings and turned back towards their impatiently waiting guide. He sneered at the angel. Disdainfully, Crowley asked, “Oi, angel butler. What time d’ya have?” Crowley glanced theatrically down at his watch. “I need to synchronize my watch with Heaven’s time.”

Nervously, Leliel glanced down at their own wrist. “2… 2.32?”

Crowley’s voice was honey sweet, but dripped with sarcasm. “Oh, what a relief. That’s what I have. Y’know, Heaven really has more in common with Hell than you lot know.”

The gossiping angels had theorized on how the day would go. Not one of them had come close to the actuality of it. Leliel was beginning to regret their decision to volunteer for this task. The Archangels had all been on edge today, and based on how well walking the pair to the conference room was turning out, Leliel didn’t presume that the Archangels’ moods would improve.

When they entered the conference room at last, fourteen Archangels were standing, with hands folded over the raised, white conference table. Crowley drew to a sudden stop in the doorway, and gestured distastefully. An accusing glance was leveled on Leliel. “W-w-what’s all this you lot have going on here?” Silent confusion from the angel. “You haven’t even got chairs!”

Relieved to have completed their task, Leliel bowed as they backed towards the glass door and closed it behind Aziraphale. They wanted to tell the Archangels that the pair was their responsibility now, but refrained from doing so. It would likely come to light in short order.

By the time he and Aziraphale had approached the table, a matching pair of tall, gold gilded, white cushioned thrones had manifested, one of which was pulled out. “For my dearest husband.” Crowley assisted Aziraphale up. Once he was settled, he shook his coat out over the back of his chair, then draped himself in it, left leg cocked over an armrest. A dismissive gesture of, ‘you may proceed.’

Archangel Raziel stood at the figurative head of the round table, presenting as a distinguished elderly gentleman. His smile was warm and disarming but ice blue eyes held something hidden in their depths. “In light of… _ certain events, _we have all been assigned to come to a unanimous decision on the angels that will be filling the open Archangel positions.”

Anthony was stroking a thumb along Aziraphale’s knuckles when his free arm rose. He didn’t wait to be addressed before asking, “Unanimous decision? As in, _ everyone _must agree?” Aziraphale tried to hide his smile unsuccessfully.

Archangel Zadkiel sighed. “That’s what unanimous means.” Annoyance laced through every syllable.

“Oh, see. Right. Just getting clarification… for future reference.” Crowley pressed a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s hand.

“We’ve compiled a list of sixty-five eligible angels that we believe would be great…” Raziel trailed off. Samael was waving his arm excitedly. “Yes, Archangel Samael, you have a question?”

“Who’s this _ we _that decided on these eligible angels and their qualifications?” It was posed as an innocent question.

“All of us, excluding the two of you. We felt you wouldn’t _ know _ what criteria befitted the promotions.” Archangel Barachiel sounded impatient already, though they had been kept waiting exceedingly long for the couple to show for the meeting.

“Oh, right. See my follow up question with that is… did Uriel help make some of those suggestions?” Gold eyes flicked to the Archangel in question, who glared across the table at him.

“Of course I did.” Uriel tried to remain composed.

“Well see, there you go. They can’t be good candidates coming from some wanker that tried, and _ failed_, to kill me and my husband.”

Anger flickered across Uriel’s face, but was gone almost immediately. Their position changed slightly, shoulders rolling back. Archangel Barachiel placed a light hand to Uriel’s forearm. The shake of his head was almost imperceptible. The implication was, _ have you gone mad? God will smite you. _

“Uriel, I’d challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you’re unarmed.” He glared across the table at Uriel, an arching brow above gold-framed glasses, daring Uriel to make the first move.

The budding confrontation was beginning to put him on edge, and his fingers tightened unconsciously on Anthony’s. His other hand dropped from the tabletop to smooth the wrinkles from his trousers. _ Bad idea, I shouldn’t have let him talk us into coming. _

Archangel Raziel cleared his throat. “Be that as it may,” Striking blue eyes settled first upon Uriel, and then Samael. Hopefully now that the latter had gotten his hit in, they could proceed. “As neither of you have been consistently in Heaven for... quite some time, we rigorously prescreened a considerable number of angels, in an attempt to expedite an already delicate situation. May we proceed?” Another heavy stare was levelled on Samael.

Crowley grinned cheerfully at Archangel Odin, then sank back into his chair. He decided quite quickly upon arriving he didn’t care to remember any of the other’s names. “Ah, yeah mate, sorry. As you were.” White Oxfords were kicked up onto the table, legs crossed at the ankle. Crowley draped an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders, and leaned in to press a firm kiss to his temple.

Aziraphale should have known he wouldn’t be able to remain awake when Anthony had shifted close enough to rest his head on his shoulder. Anthony insisted he was only getting into his comfortable _ thinking position. _ Aziraphale voiced no complaints. Anthony’s body radiated warmth and chased away the chill that tried to settle into his bones whenever he found himself in Heaven. His breathing had eventually grown slow and quiet as Archangel Raziel droned on, his voice soothing and almost melodic. Aziraphale had consulted his pocket watch. He had lasted thirteen minutes. Somehow, he had draped his long arms and lanky body around Aziraphale, and was limp save for his slow, rhythmic breaths.

Aziraphale had remained politely attentive as the other Archangels presented their candidates and gave a brief summary of each angel. They dismissed him, ignoring him completely during the presentations. His initial reaction was relief, granted the reprieve of invisibility. The relief didn’t last long. He was a peer amongst them, just as much an Archangel as any, yet he was still seen as so insignificant that their time was wasted on him. Anthony sighed quietly, such a content sound, and he shifted almost slightly closer into Aziraphale. He had allowed himself to succumb to that old need of seeking approval from beings that didn’t matter. Anthony was the only approval that mattered, and he gave Aziraphale acceptance in abundance. They had made it halfway through the list of candidates before Aziraphale woke his husband.

“_Anthony._” His voice was soft, beckoning. Crowley smiled drowsily, and nuzzled into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. "_Anthony. _” He was finally drawn from the dark, emptiness of deep sleep, and one gold eye opened partially. He couldn’t recall the last time he had actually slept. The droning conference had lulled him to sleep. Now, as he shook off the last remnants of his nap, he drew himself up from where he had entangled himself with his angel. “How disappointing. Thought this was just some bloody nightmare.” Fourteen sets of eyes settled upon him, the majority glaring. “You think I can get delivery up here?” Someone scoffed. “Eh, prob’ly right. It’d be cold by the time it arrived.” A snap, and even though presentations were laid quite precisely, a lavish expanse of pastries covered the documents and photos; blanketing the entire tabletop in sweet desserts. “You guys don’t mind, right? I’m feeling peckish.”

Aziraphale tried quite unsuccessfully not to grin. Without the weight of judgement, he felt a levity that he had never felt before in Heaven. He was unbelievably grateful for Anthony, and when he turned to him, a crème puff was lifted to his lips. Aziraphale blushed, and peeked timidly up at Anthony as he took the morsel with a prim bite. It was light with a tease of vanilla, and he couldn’t help but hum appreciatively. “_Mm_, scrummy.”

Archangel Raziel did not skip a beat. Even when suddenly there were pastries over his notes, he patiently slid them free. He did not try to regain attention. He was determinedly not going to allow the childish behavior to distract him from getting through the charade.

An éclair was plucked between thumb and forefinger. His gaze fell to inviting, pink lips. There was a glide of the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue over the pad of Crowley’s thumb as he licked away a bit of chocolate, and then blue eyes rolled closed, and – _ that fucking sound. _ Mindlessly, he chose another _ petit four, _ positively mesmerized by the sheer amount of joy that Aziraphale so clearly experienced. The mortified and revolted expressions of the other Archangels were a blurred backdrop, as insignificant as Archangel Odin’s monologue.

Gold eyes were hungry, and not for something to eat. A chocolate truffle was touched to his lips, and Aziraphale’s attention drifted down to Anthony’s mouth. How suddenly and desperately he wanted to kiss him. Warmth crept up his neck, and he took the dessert to try to redirect his mind from such sinful thoughts of his husband,_ in Heaven _ . It worked, “Mm, that is _ divine._”

Crowley loved Aziraphale’s little moans. Suddenly, and with a good amount of anguish, he realized that not only had he not heard it since The Cock-up of Heaven and Hell, but he hadn’t seen Aziraphale eat since then. He really needed to yell at his plants right now and alleviate some of his self-loathing. Crowley would have to be more attentive to Aziraphale's needs. “I love watching you put things in your mouth.” It was said thoughtlessly aloud, and was hopelessly true. It was a sensual and religious experience watching his angel savor each bite. Aziraphale nearly choked on the bon-bon, and at first Crowley was concerned, until he saw how scandalized his angel looked. “Aziraphale, I am shocked and appalled. That’s the second time today. You really should get your mind out of the gutter.”

Fingers were gentle and loving as he tucked an errant curl behind the shell of Anthony’s ear, resolute _not _to kiss him right now. To help resist the temptation, his gaze flicked first to Archangel Raziel, and then unintentionally fell on Uriel. They were staring far more intently at Raziel than was necessary. Blue eyes dropped to the rainbow of macaroons before Uriel, then back to Anthony. He was leaned towards Aziraphale, mouth hidden behind the press of his knuckles, gold eyes intent as he offered a delicate lemon meringue morsel. “Uriel, would you be a dear and pass the macaroons?” Blue eyes met the dark chocolate glare bravely. 

_ Don’t think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in Hell. _

_ But what about in Heaven? _Uriel had likely never anticipated that they would be here now. Aziraphale was almost embarrassed at the slight twinge of satisfaction he felt – almost. “Do try one for yourself, they’re positively tempting_._” He took the meringue from his husband, drawing Anthony’s fingers between his lips up to the first knuckle. Swirling his tongue, he licked his fingers clean.

“Ngk.” Crowley swallowed audibly, but still couldn’t put his thoughts in order; not with the deceptively serene smile that curved Aziraphale’s lips. _ The bastard. _Never in history could there have been anyone else he could have fallen in love, or bed, with. Crowley had stood no chance atop the wall of Eden. When finally all synapses were firing appropriately, he snapped several times, impatiently, in Uriel’s direction. His gaze was unwavering from Aziraphale. “Uriel, you heard’im, hurry it up.”

Uriel slammed an open palm on the table, desserts and their platters shuddering from the force, and then it was all miraculously gone, even the small pastry Crowley was repulsively feeding to Aziraphale. Archangel Raziel finally fell silent. “Get out! We have had enough of your disruption! You clearly don’t want to be here, and at this point, I am willing to suffer vengeful wrath, over spending another moment with you two idiots.”

Crowley had been lounged quite comfortably, a long leg draped over the arm of his chair, the toe of an Oxford having pushed Archangel Thranduil into Archangel Nakia, both of whom were forced to huddle close to Archangel Darcy Lewis. When a hand slammed to the tabletop, and the pastries vanished, so too, did Crowley’s humor. He unfolded himself from the chair to stand. With his weight distributed onto his right arm, he stretched in front of Aziraphale, palm molded to the edge of the table. There was an almost subtle sway to him as he focused his unblinking glare on Uriel. His posture was that of a predator, coiled taut, prepared to strike. Uriel only needed to give him a reason.

Archangel Raziel did not shout, but there was a hardness to his words. “That is quite enough. We are here under God’s divine mandate and we will _ succeed _ in finding three new Archangels, as _ per Her orders_.” His glare was equal in measure between Uriel and Samael.

Like a flipped switch, Crowley sank back down into his chair, and draped himself comfortably so that he sat almost completely on his hip. “Bloody hell, Uriel, we are trying to have a Very Serious, Important Meeting. Stop interrupting. Were you raised in a barn?”

Rage passed across Uriel’s expression, and they looked quite prepared to climb across the table to strangle Crowley. Another reminding touch from Barachiel, and Uriel returned their attention to Raziel.

“Perfect. That was the last Arch—“ Archangel Raziel was cut off.

“The last one?” Their fingers were laced together, Crowley affectionately stroking Aziraphale’s thumb with his own. 

“Yes, Archangel Samael. We need to narrow down the results fur—“ Again, he was interrupted. Archangel Raziel closed his eyes, praying for patience.

“Oh--ah, how can I possibly give an accurate opinion if I missed the first lot?” Crowley’s incredulous expression did nothing to soften anyone.

“Then perhaps you should have paid attention.” Archangel Auriel could be silent no longer. He had better things that he could be doing.

“He doesn’t even need to sleep!” This was from Archangel Sariel, who gestured at Samael, silently pleading Archangel Raziel to proceed.

“With all this waffling on, it’s a miracle I’m not in a coma.” He frowned up at Aziraphale, who was beginning to look rather worn. Crowley snapped, their thrones morphing into an elevated sofa, laden with pale gold pillows. “We’re just gonna get all settled in while you guys regroup and start over.”

Aziraphale sank back into the luxuriously soft pillows, and sighed. “Oh, this is delightful, Anthony. Thank you.” His voice dropped conspiratorially low, “but perhaps we shouldn’t provoke them any further?” Once he had settled comfortably, Anthony stretched out along the remainder of the cushions, legs still draped over the opposite arm. Red curls spread over his lap when Anthony’s head came to rest on his thighs. Idly, fingers teased through fiery strands, mindful of plaits.

Archangel Jophiel, who had started the presentation first, had refused to go through his candidates again. Archangel Raziel had stated that he would present last then, and moved on to Archangel Jibril.

From the depths of a pocket, Crowley withdrew his iPhone AirBuds. He slipped one into Aziraphale’s ear, and the other into his own. Though he knew Aziraphale’s musical tastes were more classical, Crowley still scrolled through the playlist on his phone and found _ Can’t Stop the Feeling_. A foot bounced merrily in time with the song. 

Archangel Negan pointed at them accusingly, and spoke in the slow, baritone drawl of an American Baptist preacher. “Clearly, the Archangel Samael can’t comprehend the gravity of our charge under the Lord. Why must we pander to the whims of one that does not have reverence for his God given station?”

“_Clearly, _ I’m listening. I heard all your whinging. Hey, mate, where’s Lucille?” He knew that no one would catch the reference, but Crowley grinned regardless, pleased with himself.

Archangel Raziel interjected, suddenly finding himself not as the head of the conference, but as a mediator between bickering children. “Archangel Jophiel, that is quite enough. I will personally escort you out if you find that you cannot control yourself.”

“I never thought I would witness the day when Heaven was so devoid of a sense of justice and righteousness.” Jophiel’s jaw clenched subtly, “Gabriel would have never stood for this parody of Holiness. Must be what happens when one of the Fallen joins the ranks of the angels.”

“That was brave.” Hearing someone openly questioning God’s Judgment, _ again_, in Heaven, was astonishing. Crowley didn’t have time to react. Aziraphale nearly deposited Crowley on the floor when he abruptly stood. He clung to the sofa and pulled himself up. The phone didn’t survive the fall.

Aziraphale’s hand was gentle when it rested to the gleaming tabletop, his anger and disapproval furrowing his brow. “How _ dare _ you question God and our right to be here. Even when he was a demon, Anthony was far more of an earnest representation of God’s image than any one of you.” Behind him, Anthony whistled. “You talk of righteousness and Holiness, but pass Judgement that isn’t ours to pass. Every last one of you should be ashamed.” Aziraphale wagged a disapproving, scolding finger. “And if you had followed Gabriel into his mad quest for vengeance, then you should count yourselves lucky that you are still able to consider yourselves angels, _ at all_.” 

“_You fucked a demon! _Gabriel told everyone!” Uriel could bite their tongue no longer. 

Crowley pressed a hand to his chest. “Rude! I am right here.”

“That demon you condemn destroyed Gabriel and has Ascended! He ended the senseless violence you were all so keen on raining down upon the humans! God’s children. Even if he were still a demon, I would proudly stand at his side over you pompous, self-righteous, _ f-- _ .” Aziraphale tried not to swear, and settled instead on, “_feather dusters._”

Part of Crowley wanted to proudly make love to Aziraphale right there on the table. That would have to wait. He eyed Archangel Negan; the way his eyes narrowed threateningly. It was a natural movement, pacing between Aziraphale’s flank and the sofa, shifting so that he was a barrier between the Holier-than-thou Archangel and _ his _ angel.

“In my estimation, Gabriel had the right of it. No true angel would debase himself to the lusts of a demon.” A sweeping gesture beseeched reason from his peers. “Brothers, sisters… he even _ reeks _of Hell! Clearly, spoiled goods from creation.”

Crowley wouldn’t have blinked twice at the insult, if it had been directed at himself. But the Archangel pointed an accusing finger at Aziraphale, and Crowley came quite close to determining if he could smite Archangels. "Listen here, you bible-thumping bellend. Say whotever about me, but keep him out of your mouth." It was one of the hardest things he had to do, only sneering, when he wanted to do so much worse. Aziraphale was winding up again, but Crowley slung an arm around his shoulders. They were woefully outnumbered, and while he had very little concern for his own safety, he would be no help to Aziraphale if they were overpowered. They had to play by the rules.

“Oh, eh, yeah. I _ s’ppose _Gabriel had the right of it. We should get his opinion—oh, dearie me, how unfortunate.” He frowned in mock sympathy. Now that he had gotten in the last punch – Crowley was secure enough to admit he could be a petty bastard – he decided to present a peace offering. “Listen, we can settle this here and now. You let me and Aziraphale pick one of the three candidates—“

Aziraphale raised a finger as he interjected hastily. “Emily. The receptionist. We pick her.” Emily had always been a kind soul. Dutiful, ever patient. She also very much reminded Aziraphale of himself at times – looked down upon and belittled by her superiors. She had always shown curiosity towards Earth. Whenever he came for his performance reviews or Earthly reports, she had a list of questions about the little planet he considered home. And just before leaving, she would ask about the _ goings on below _. If they were to pick another angel, let it be someone who could be their ally. And honestly, for no other reason than to unchain her from that miserable desk.

“Great pick, Aziraphale. Alright, you guys put Emily in one of the three spots, and we’ll leave and let you guys fight over the other two. Do we all have a deal?”

Thirteen Archangels were immediately rushing to talk, which devolved into shouting to be heard over one another. It seemed to be a fairly even split that half of the room wanted to agree to the terms so that everyone could move on with their day, but the other half wanted to proceed with caution – he used to be a demon._ Is it okay to make a deal with him now_? There was equal concern that this could be a trap. Aziraphale looked helplessly at Anthony.

Crowley grinned, and tugged Aziraphale with him back onto the couch. He kicked his feet up onto the table, and leaned back to watch the chaos, quite pleased with himself. Aziraphale rested into his side, and Crowley pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He was unbelievably proud of Aziraphale for his endurance, but as the hours had slipped by, he knew that it wouldn’t hold up much longer. 

The sudden silence was deafening as the door whispered closed behind God. The Almighty made Their way to Archangel Samael, hand clapping to his shoulder, grip firm. “How goes the hunt for replacements, My son?”

Crowley couldn’t help but wince under the grip, grimacing up at The Almighty. “Oh-ah… eh, yanno, we were just getting to the good bits.” Crowley bravely met God’s gaze, and flinched under the heaviness of slate grey eyes that knew _ everything_.

Aziraphale was tense, his posture almost painfully rigid. Both of his hands joined together in his lap, and he stared with unnecessary attentiveness at his fingers as they laced tightly together. He was resisting the urge to try to slip out of the door behind them. Instead he hoped that he would go unnoticed if he sat very still. The Almighty had blessed them with knowledge that their continued relationship would end in Anthony’s destruction. Yet, here they were, together, as if they held God’s advice in so little regard. Aziraphale’s jaw clenched, and his brow furrowed with the intensity of his downcast gaze. But God saw him; She saw everything.

The Almighty pat Samael’s shoulder firmly, yet affectionately. He almost tumbled off the sofa. “I see you’ve got them all squabbling like a bunch of brooding hens.” They finally turned Their attention to the other fourteen Archangels in attendance.

Archangel Raziel pinched the bridge of his nose, unable to hide his exasperation any longer. They all had _ one _ job. Find three Archangels to replace those that had met their destruction. _ One _simple task, and they hadn’t been able to keep it together long enough to agree on anything. It was a disgrace. 

“Archangel Raziel, I praise your fortitude. I knew this wouldn’t be an easy task when I assigned it to you, but your efforts are praiseworthy.” Samael coughed in an attempt to hide his laugh, and once he had fallen silent, God continued. “Thank you for attempting to keep everyone focused.” 

Uriel’s gaze was drawn unwillingly to Crowley, who was grinning. It was a taunt that Uriel was just barely able to resist. Their attention returned to God, The Almighty’s expression darkening when it shifted from Raziel.

“Who wants to explain what was so important that it caused such a derailment of My meeting?” Silence answered the question.

Jophiel finally cleared his throat. “The Archangels Samael and Aziraphale proposed a receptionist for one of the positions. Clearly a ludicrous, and inexperienced candidate. They are making a mockery of this very trying time.”

“Emiliel is a fine candidate. She has never shirked her responsibilities, even when those in higher positions abuse their powers and pawn their duties off on her.” The Almighty’s knowing gaze shifted with scarcely contained disapproval to Archangel Auriel, who visibly cowered under the look. “I’m not going to wait for eternity. You need to come to an agreement. I expect your three decisions on my desk before sunrise.”

Both he and Anthony had risen, and he tried very resolutely to not stroke his knuckles worriedly. As the happiness slipped just out of reach, he forgot himself and wrung his hands wretchedly. _ I don’t belong here. This is all a farce. _

_ “First you condemned him, a-and… and then you destroyed him. You destroyed him after everything that he had already been through.” _

_ “Careful, Archangel. As of late, there’s a few vacancies in Hell that need to be filled.” _

It would have been impossible to ignore the almost tangible feel of the Almighty’s nearness. When he looked up, he was met with kindness once more. It was almost too much to bare, and left him feeling exposed. “I’m very pleased both of you could make it.”

Aziraphale recoiled. Though the Lord’s voice hadn’t been booming, it still reverberated through his body achingly.

“Why do you flinch, My child?” 

His hands wrung wretchedly before him. Without meeting The Almighty’s gaze, Aziraphale confessed. “I was a recent recipient of dark tidings, my Lord.”

“Who was it that brought you these dark tidings?”

Aziraphale glanced up sharply, incredulous. “Why, you did, my Lord.”

“Oh, I did? This is news to me.” God stood before Aziraphale, face impassive.

The room had fallen silent during the exchange. Crowley was hanging on every word that the pair uttered, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“But the-the dream… you said... “ Aziraphale trailed off, uncertain. There was a pregnant pause, and when God spoke, Her voice held so much more compassion than it had on the day She returned Anthony. 

“I never came to you in a dream, Aziraphale.”

He could feel his throat constricting with tears he could not shed, not here. “N-no?”

“No, Aziraphale.”

Crowley frowned, but he didn’t have time to analyze the discussion.

“Archangel Aziraphale. I know that you have been troubled, but fear not, for you are loved.” The Almighty watched tears well in blue eyes. God pressed a soothing, gentle kiss to the Archangel’s brow. One last clap was given to Samael’s shoulder, accompanied with a firm squeeze, and then the Archangels were left to their own devices.

His knees suddenly felt quite weak. He had to sit on the edge of the sofa. Aziraphale didn’t realize he was trembling until he looked down at his hands and saw how they quivered in his lap. He wasn’t certain how much longer the meeting could go, and though he knew he ought to stick it out, he found himself whispering just under his breath, “_Crepes, Anthony, please… _” Aziraphale felt too exposed.

Crowley had positioned himself in front of Aziraphale. He knew, even before their safe word was used, that it was time to go. “So here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to give Emily one of the positions. Pick whoever the hell you lot want for the other two spots. If for any reason any angel, _ at all, _needs to come to Earth, we are to be notified immediately. Though, it’s in everyone’s best interest if that were not to happen. Earth is ours, and none of you are welcome there.” His gaze rested on each Archangel, some of whom were quick to nod in agreement, others more reluctant to do so, but inevitably relenting. “Leave us the fuck alone.” 

The smug ex-demon glared at Uriel. They returned the look, arms folded across their chest. If there had been a clock in the room, it would have ticked away the passage of time as the Archangels glowered at one another. It was broken when Barachiel discreetly cleared his throat. Uriel rolled their eyes, but succumbed as the rest had. They nodded begrudgingly to the preposterous deal.

A breath was drawn in through his nose, though it shuddered as he exhaled. Another breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth. Conflicting emotions were vying for dominance, and Aziraphale was desperately trying to cling to his composure. 

_ The Almighty laid a warm hand on his shoulder, and offered a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I truly am.” _

Another breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

_ I love sitting in the warm sun and watching Anthony tend to his garden. I love that now when the night grows late, and we’ve had too much to drink, we fall into bed together, instead of having to part ways. I love getting lost in the library for hours, surrounded by the scent of old leather and fragile pages. _

The distraction was what he needed. By the time Anthony turned to face him, Aziraphale had collected himself.

Crowley carefully guided him to his feet. Drawing his white coat over Aziraphale’s shoulders, he searched blue eyes, and found strength there. Once more, he was overwhelmingly proud of Aziraphale. Fingertips were feather-light to the underside of his chin, his kiss just as delicate.

Aziraphale could feel the blush warm his cheeks, but he was growing more skillful at not seeking the approval of the other Archangels. Aziraphale curled his fingers gently over Anthony’s bicep, then offered a polite smile to their colleagues. “May we meet on a better occasion.” Aziraphale’s voice was surprisingly light, though his pleasantry was met with disapproving glares.

Crowley allowed Aziraphale to guide him towards the exit, though it was only so he could turn to face the room full of Archangels and present his middle finger, backing out through the doorway to ensure everyone saw his farewell. As they passed the receptionist’s desk on their way to the escalators, Crowley called over a shoulder, “Congratulations on the promotion, Emily! You’re gonna do great.”

“Uh—what?” Emily received no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	30. Revitalization initiated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!  


They had descended the escalators in silence. As they crossed the lobby, their hands joined in the space between them. The floor rippled delicately underfoot. It was dark outside, and the street was desolate as they crossed to the Bentley.

Anthony opened the door for him, and assisted him in. Aziraphale settled himself comfortably, eyes closed. He inhaled a breath. Relief flooded him. Anthony had goaded the Archangels, and though tempers had flared, no harm had come to him. The Almighty had truly reclaimed a personal hand in Heaven. A palm rested above his heart and he lifted blue eyes Heavenward. Her kiss had lifted him; and he felt like he could finally _ breathe. _

_ “So glad you could finally join us, Archangel Samael.” _

Crowley closed the door behind him, and curled his fingers around the steering wheel. Through his history, Crowley had grown adept at maintaining his composure, when inside he was a complicated mess of emotions. Crowley was wired; he had been confined for far too long, and his energy was looking for an outlet. His fingers tapped restlessly on the wheel. He couldn’t have anticipated just how well things had gone. He had been able to have fun and torment the pompous Archangels; and he had shown Uriel that while they may have escaped Destruction, some things could be far, far worse. 

The overwhelming panic and terror of Anthony’s impending demise felt like a distant memory. Certainly, darker emotions lingered still, but at the moment, the brightness of his joy chased away the shadows. When he spoke, it was breathy with amazement, “we’re truly safe.”

Crowley shifted onto a hip, and braced his arm along the back of the seats. “Yeah. We are.”

Aziraphale glanced over at him, the corners of his lips quirking in the faintest of smiles. “I thought you were going to give half of them an aneurysm when you presented your deal.” The giggles that he erupted into felt wonderful. Anthony’s joining laughter could have been mistaken for a duck, and Aziraphale chortled. “My dear, you _ fell asleep _and had them start over.”

Aziraphale’s joy was infectious. It had been his main goal to make Aziraphale happy, ever since the angel gave away his flaming sword. Crowley’s laughter had slowed, but his grin remained that of a poor prat, helplessly and eternally in love. “You asked Uriel to pass you macaroons.” Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle again, now that they were alone at last. “I’m surprised they didn’t discorporate.”

Aziraphale wiped away the tears of laughter with a delicate dab of his handkerchief. When at last he had composed himself, he looked back to Anthony. As handsome as he had been in black, he looked equally just as lovely and virile in pastels. 

Aziraphale turned towards him more fully, tongue touching briefly to his inner lip. His gaze lingered on Anthony’s lap, fitted trousers pulled taut. Long legs were splayed wide, even when folded behind the wheel of the Bentley. When he was finally able to force his attention back up, Anthony’s playful grin was gone. Heat crept up his neck and stained his cheeks. Aziraphale quietly whimpered under the intensity of Anthony’s blatantly displayed need for him. Aziraphale stretched a hand out to him.

Crowley would never grow accustomed to the way Aziraphale’s eyes drank him in. He was quite aware of just how aroused he had been in Heaven. The slide of Aziraphale’s tongue on his fingers, and the bravery in standing with Crowley. He was suddenly hard in his white trousers. Beautifully expressive blue eyes lifted, and Crowley could see his own aching need reflected in them. The quiet moan nearly did him in, and when Aziraphale reached for him, Crowley closed the distance between them. Fingers tangled in blonde curls, gently easing his head back. He leaned in to fit their mouths together, but his dramatically large, round lensed glasses were a mild, irritating inconvenience. They were stripped off, and tossed thoughtlessly somewhere in the back. Having shifted onto a knee, elevating his lanky frame in the confined space, Crowley took a moment to appreciate the beauty of delicately upturned features. Blue eyes studied his mouth. An inviting, tempting pout, and Crowley sealed a kiss.

An arm draped around Anthony’s neck, the other curling fingers into the soft vest, pulling him closer. Outside the windows, the world was still, and dark. The proper thing to do was to wait until they returned to their cottage. But that hadn’t occurred to Aziraphale. Their tongues met, light, playful, and tasting. His hand meandered, sliding up his chest, fingertips tracing delicately up the side of his throat above the collar of his shirt. The pads of Aziraphale’s fingers whispered over his ear as he lightly molded his hand to the side of Anthony’s features. He was rewarded with a throaty growl that sent pleasant shivers racing down his spine. It made him ache with need in his own fitted trousers.

Aziraphale was soft in only the best of ways. His body was full, and when his hands trailed down Aziraphale’s sides, he didn’t feel ribs, but the dips and valleys of his rounded tummy. To Crowley, Aziraphale was the most intoxicating being in existence. He loved to worship the form that both of them were so fond of. After several long, unhurried, and heated moments, they broke apart. Panting, his mouth caressing over a soft cheek, Crowley murmured against the shell of an ear. “_You are exquisite, and beautiful. Positively enchanting. _” Crowley’s hands had risen, to untie Aziraphale’s tartan bowtie, then moving onto the buttons of his shirt and cardigan.

Oh, good Lord, Aziraphale went positively _ weak _ when Anthony used that low, seductively smooth voice; velvet mixed with gravel. Did he know what power it held over him? Anthony’s mouth had begun to seek lower, but Aziraphale curled his fingers into the lavender shirt. Anthony came to him easily and willingly, their mouths reuniting. Aziraphale pulled at the white sweater vest and shirt beneath, tugging them free. In the time it had taken him to do so, Anthony had unbuttoned his cardigan and shirt; his belt and trousers also undone. Aziraphale was certain that he had cheated and used a miracle, one Aziraphale was grateful for.

Aziraphale’s hips lifted, and Crowley shifted his position in the limited space, drawing down tartan boxers; _ those are new. _A palm traced over the backs of calves, down to well-worn Oxfords. The complicated shoes miraculously slid free, allowing Crowley to remove clothing, save for the alluring, nearly knee-high socks. His gaze was devouring as Crowley looked over his mostly nude angel. His blushing maiden, no matter how many times they had been intimate. 

They had never done _ it _ in the Bentley before, but Crowley had fantasized about what it would be like, and he had an impressive imagination, for an ex-Fallen. But being with Aziraphale now, the heat of their bodies and panted breath fogging the windows, his mind hadn’t been able to compete with the reality of it.

Blue eyes met gold, and Aziraphale had the sudden need to get Anthony in a similar manner of undress as his own. The purple bowtie was plucked, and came loose. His hands were already clumsy with the buttons at Anthony’s throat. Then quite suddenly a slick grip curled around Aziraphale’s aching member. Lashes fluttered, and his eyes rolled.

Crowley watched the pleasure chase across such exquisitely elegant features. His attention was rapt, and unwavering. At least, it was until Aziraphale lightly clung to the collar of his shirt, and pulled him in. Their mouths met, and Crowley drank the moan that rose to such sweet lips.

_ I was born to love you… _

Freddie Mercury quietly serenaded them, just under the impossibly arousing sounds Aziraphale tended to make. The Bentley – his mildly inconvenient, yet mostly on point, possibly sentient keeper of his playlist. It was apropos, and so perfectly expressed what he wanted to convey to Aziraphale. While his left hand continued to stroke, the right crept up his belly, the pad of his thumb brushing over left nipple. Crowley was rewarded with another soft sound amidst their kiss.

Slick fingers paid special attention to the sensitive tip of his arousal, and against the mouth that had become a light and flirty caress, Aziraphale moaned. The air was still, save for his own ragged breaths. It smelled of clean leather and _ Anthony_. His head tipped back against the seat, soft lips teasing, and teeth nipping over his exposed throat. The hand that stroked him was patient and knowing, nudging Aziraphale closer to the edge of release. His hips bucked slightly. Right leg was draped over a broad shoulder, and a tartan sock clad foot was pressed to the dashboard. His thin husband knelt on the floor, framed between his thighs. Aziraphale frowned at him, concern flaring through pleasure. “Anthony, that looks awfully uncomfortable. I can make—“ He choked on the words, because a slick fingertip was caressing his entrance. Aziraphale met gold eyes that watched him with heated intensity. Anthony stroked over sensitive, hidden nerves. A hand jerked to grapple with the roof, and as he blissfully fell apart. Aziraphale shamelessly moaned Anthony’s name.

There was no discomfort he wouldn’t have suffered if it meant it provided Aziraphale any form of pleasure. He was beautiful as he lost himself, but then suddenly blue eyes were wide and worried. Crowley was hyperattentive, but retained a slow, distracted stroking.

“T-the Bentley! I don’t w-want to ma-make a-a…” He bit his lip, unable to finish the sentence. He was fighting desperately not to succumb to his release, and with each gliding touch over his shaft, it was more difficult to refrain. Toes curled, and thighs quivered under the duress of fighting back his orgasm.

Crowley couldn’t help but grin in relief. “Oh, Aziraphale.” He resumed his stroking with renewed insistence. Two long, slender fingers were just as focused in the single minded intent to bring Aziraphale back to the brink of orgasm, and push him through it. “The Bentley can be cleaned.” His voice felt like glass in his throat, “Leave it to me.” His lips swept over the soft swell at the inside of a deliciously voluptuous thigh. Teeth followed the gentle kiss, along with a draw and caress of lips and tongue; it left a bruising affection to such tender flesh.

“_Ooh, Anthony. _ ” His orgasm hit him hard, and he tensed under expert hands. Fingertips slid down the window, finding a bracing grip on the door. Aziraphale’s delicate moans drowned the music. Anthony guided him through each crashing, rapturous wave of his climax, murmuring quiet words of encouragement, _ ‘ _ ‘_There you are, my love.’ ‘I know it’s sensitive, but I promise to make it worth your while.’ _ The low, sultry voice only amplified the intensity of Aziraphale’s release, and he writhed helplessly.

Crowley intently devoured the sight of Aziraphale losing his prim demeanor, succumbing to the pleasures of the flesh. Crowley encouraged Aziraphale through his orgasm, and it made him ache with need in his fitted slacks. He knew Aziraphale needed reassurance; that what he was doing was okay, that he was good. And if Crowley allowed himself, he might have been able to find release from merely being the one offering the reassurance that so obviously pleased Aziraphale. It caused a primal sort of reaction in him, knowing he was the reason that Aziraphale lost himself.

When at last each crest had been reached, Crowley gave him only a slight reprieve. Fingers withdrew from his body, miracling away the spill of his orgasm with a curt flick of his wrist. Crowley had slowed his stroking, but hadn’t stopped completely. It was a languid caress of Aziraphale’s arousal, and he throbbed in Crowley’s hand. He had no intention of allowing Aziraphale to grow soft.

For several long moments, Aziraphale attempted to collect himself, but each time Anthony’s hand stroked the length of his arousal, his body spasmed. It felt like an eternity before he was finally able to calm, his heart rate regulating to a normal rhythm. But then he was enveloped in the soft, wet warmth of his mouth, and Aziraphale cried out. His body was already shuddering, and he blindly found Anthony’s free right hand, anchoring to him. He wanted more. He wanted to feel Anthony moving inside of him, joining them together intimately. His head rose from the seat, and he lowered his gaze, meeting gold. Aziraphale whimpered. There was a possessiveness in Anthony’s eyes that he had only read about in his romance novels. He had seen the look before, but now he knew what it meant, and it sent a thrill racing through him. “An—“ He had to clear his throat, and fought to find words. He couldn’t, and instead Aziraphale found himself falling apart once more. His breath sawed through parted lips as he was buried in Anthony’s throat, and his head fell back against the seat again.

Lips popped off Aziraphale’s arousal, and his tongue swirled as his hand resumed stroking. God, he looked beautiful, spread before him, head thrown back. Pale skin was flushed pink, and his chest heaved with his labored breath. “You are so bloody irresistible, Aziraphale.” And then, because it was still draped irresistibly over his shoulder, Crowley’s mouth found his inner thigh. “You are my everything, my love.”

Another quiet whimper, tension stealing through him, release just within reach. “Anthony, p-please, I _ need… _ ” Aziraphale lifted his head so that he could meet his knowing gaze. Aziraphale ached for him, and he desperately attempted to articulate that through thoughts that were fogged with pleasure and desire. “I _ need _you inside of me, Anthony.” There was a desperation in his plea.

_ I need you. _Crowley had already begun undoing his white snakehead belt. The seductive plea didn’t need to be voiced twice; Crowley needed Aziraphale in equal measure. He was driven by the urge to make Aziraphale happy, content, and satisfied. When it came to intimacy, his one goal was to ensure Aziraphale was never left feeling anything less than divine ecstasy. Crowley had folded his body so he had been able to use his mouth, and now he rose to his knees, feet crammed against the floorboards. He didn’t care about the discomfort. White slacks pooled at his knees, and Crowley leaned in, curling a hand over the back of the seats. Their lips met, and Aziraphale gripped his vest, pulling him closer. He was slick and hard as Crowley sank into him, catching the moan that rose to Aziraphale’s lips. “Is that what you needed?”

Anthony moved inside of him, maddeningly slow. Aziraphale writhed beneath him, his movements slightly impeded by the grip of a strong hand on his thigh, securing it to his side. Anthony finally relented, thrusting with purpose. “Ye-_Ooh_ _my_.” Trembling fingers rested lightly at the back of his head, mindful of plaited red curls. His right hand clung desperately to the soft white vest. Anthony’s mouth and teeth scored against his throat, and Aziraphale gasped. “Angel. Call me angel.” He had Anthony’s attention now, and he temporarily went still above Aziraphale. “Tell me I’m your angel.” After their day, it felt right, and he desperately needed to hear Anthony say it.

He had been hesitant at first, certain that he would need to proceed with caution. _ Tell me I’m your angel. _ Crowley nearly lost himself, suddenly teetering on the verge of an orgasm that he had to force back with a bite to the inside of his cheek. As arousing as it was on the rare occasion that Aziraphale swore, or used naughty talk that would only scandalize a librarian, Crowley had never anticipated just how seductive and provocative it would be to have Aziraphale beg for Crowley to call him _ his angel. _ Crowley stood on the cusp of orgasm, and fought against the urge, resuming his thrusting. His mouth was soft against Aziraphale’s ear, his breath warm. When he spoke, it was in a low growl, “_You’re my angel. _”

That was the small push Aziraphale needed. He was suddenly tense and still, his breath a gasped moan that caught in his throat. And then he was trembling with his climax, “Yes, oh, _ thank you, yes_.” Anthony’s name was a grateful and fervent prayer on his lips. He succumbed helplessly, becoming a celestial being of only euphoric sensations. He was still riding the high of his orgasm when a silky hand curled around his length, stroking him, pressing him beyond it. The gentle insistence in stepping past the point of comfort, blended the ache of sensitive skin seamlessly with the pleasure of Anthony’s thrusting hips and stroking hand. Aziraphale clung to Anthony weakly, fearful that he might discorporate otherwise.

“Stay with me, angel.” With a light grip to Aziraphale’s chin, Crowley encouraged blue eyes to meet his own. “Do you need me to stop?” He had begun to do just that, when a leg curved around his hips, a delicate, tartan sock clothed foot pressing with gentle insistence against his backside. Crowley buried his face into the curve of Aziraphale’s throat, exposed when he tipped his head back again. _ Not yet, _ was his pleading mantra, wrestling with the aching need to find release. When restraint had been reclaimed, he straightened. Strong hands found the backs of thick thighs, legs pressed forward only enough to afford Crowley a better angle. With the purchase white Oxfords had on the floorboards, Crowley’s thrusting had an almost bruising strength behind it. It felt like he could sink deeper into Aziraphale’s warmth, and he groaned a harshly grated sound. _ Not yet. _

_ I’m just a, _

_ Just a new man. _

_ Yes, you made me live again. _

Aziraphale had finally reached the other side, no longer so sensitive that it was almost torturous. His gaze lifted to Anthony, close to still being fully clothed in white and lavender. That stirred something in him – that Anthony had been fueled by the same need Aziraphale had, and that he couldn’t waste any time further by removing his clothing. With the subtle shift in positioning, Anthony stroked deeper, harder. To anyone else, Anthony may have seemed collected, but there was a twitch of muscle from the grit of his jaw, and a concentrative furrow of his brow. Anthony was trying hard to keep it together. Aziraphale wanted to see his carefully crafted facade fracture. “I love feeling you inside of me, Anthony.” Their eyes met, and Anthony swallowed visibly. Beautiful, angular features looked almost stern in his focused intensity, and Aziraphale whimpered when he shifted the angle of his stroking. His tongue wet pink lips. “D-do that again…?”

Crowley was well aware of what his mischievous angel was doing, and he had almost succeeded. Quite luckily for Crowley, Aziraphale could be distracted. “That was very naughty of you, angel.” Crowley needed to feel his angel’s soft lips against his own. His hold on Aziraphale’s thighs was relinquished, a hand gripping the edge of the seat, supporting his weight. Their mouths met, breaths mixing as they both temporarily lost themselves in the feel of the other. 

In the minimal space of the Bentley, they held one another desperately, their kisses growing hungry and frantic. His head fell back again, and grappled futilely at the roof, finding no grip, then tangling desperately into lavender fabric. “_Yes, yes… almos—“ _ Aziraphale quivered beneath him as he climaxed, his moan a sound that was torn from his throat.

That did him in. He tried to fight it back, but lost. Muscles grew rigid, and old metal creaked under the force of the grip he reclaimed on the seat. The low sound that vibrated in his chest was smothered against Aziraphale’s neck. When at long last they were both still and sated and miraculously cleaned, Crowley shifted to collapse back into the driver’s seat, pulling his pants up as he did so. Aziraphale was having difficulty redressing himself with hands that trembled from the effort. Crowley hid his satisfied smile as he reached over the seat, miraculously finding a blanket folded back there.

Aziraphale’s body felt loose and liquid, and he struggled with the buttons of his shirt. Anthony came to his rescue, and wrapped a soft, oversized crème cashmere blanket around him, then tucked him into his side. “Oh, good Lord.” It was murmured contently as he nestled into Anthony.

The Bentley’s engine roared to life, and with his right hand, Crowley steered them onto the street. The day had turned out so much better than he could have anticipated in Heaven, and then he had been able to pleasure Aziraphale… _ in the Bentley_. He knew he was grinning stupidly, and couldn’t stop.

“Anthony?” He spoke slowly, muffled against the blanket.

“Yes, angel?” He glanced from the road, down at Aziraphale, then back up again.

“I would very much like to share a bottle of wine once we return home.” They both knew that one wouldn’t be enough.

“I would literally set the world on fire in search of the last bottle of wine for you.” Crowley’s tone was light, his hand absently stroking up and down the length of Aziraphale’s left bicep.

“I would need that last bottle of wine to cope with your theatrics.” Aziraphale’s voice reflected his blissful smile.

“You would need more than one bottle to cope with that, angel.”

Aziraphale couldn’t dispute that.

As they soared through the night, Queen serenaded them. 

_ I’m traveling at the speed of light, _

_ I wanna make a supersonic man out of you _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	31. I drink to the general joy o' th' whole table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!  


Queen was low and quiet on the way home, country roads almost impenetrably dark; by human standards anyway, with their inferior vision. Tires met old bricks, and Aziraphale sat up from where he had been tucked against Crowley. He had been fairly certain Aziraphale had fallen asleep; so still, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Blonde curls were tousled, and he wore the blanket like a makeshift toga. He looked fucking adorable. Crowley helped Aziraphale dress in their drive; concentrating earnestly as he looped and knotted the tartan bowtie with great care. In the darkness beyond the privacy of their yard, sheep quietly bleated their disapproval of the nocturnal disturbance.

Aziraphale peered down his nose at his beloved, his heart full. Anthony knew how fastidious he was with his presentation, even if it was merely to retire in. “Shall I fetch the wine?”

“You fetch the glasses and bottle opener.” 

An indecent amount of empty wine bottles were clustered on the coffee table. Aziraphale’s large, deep glass was also empty. With hands that trembled minutely from intoxication, he poured himself more. In the process of doing so, his precariously balanced glass crashed to its side. Like blood pooling from a gaping wound, wine swept across the table, staining all it touched. Both scrambled to remove books that they hadn’t had the forethought to move earlier.

Crowley had swept three of Aziraphale’s old books up, one of which was his first edition of _ Canterbury Tales_, before the wine could be a threat to them. They were magically returned to Aziraphale’s desk. When Crowley turned back to his angel, he was holding up a saturated copy of _ Vogue Paris_. He looked apologetic and solemn.

“I’m quite afraid that I’ve ruined your periodical publication on fashion. I’m so sorry, my dear. I tried to save it…”

Alcohol could be a treacherous journey, navigating a tightrope of light and fanciful feelings above a ravine of malicious, seeking, inky black tendrils of a past that was wrought with trauma. Crowley was familiar with that emotional fall. The spill was cleaned with a sweeping of his hand, and an accompanied snap. The miraculously dry magazine was tossed carelessly aside. Taking Aziraphale by the shoulders, he was drawn into Crowley’s chest. “You idiot. Next time, go for your irreplaceable books, yeah? No harm done, easy fix.” There was infinite patience and compassion in his voice. “I can pop down to any little shop and pick up magazines. It wouldn’t be impossible, but it would be far more noticed, if we had to replace anything from your collection, mind.”

Aziraphale sank gratefully into the warmth of Anthony’s body, his sigh a relieved sound. Small fistfuls were taken of the soft, white sweater vest. When they had first moved into the cottage, their shared living space beyond the library had been rather minimalistic. Furniture had been removed, added, and rearranged. Books had their own hand-crafted unit. Movies, as well as games, were separated into their own genres, and then alphabetized, something Anthony still occasionally attempted to do with his books, unsuccessfully. Previously sparse walls now not only held twin portraits from a handful of centuries past, but also photos of the life they had fought fiercely for. It was an eccentric blend of an old sofa and high end devices and appliances, tartan curtains, and sleek end tables. Aziraphale marveled at the home they had created together from his vantage point in Anthony’s arms. An inhaled breath, Anthony’s scent intoxicating – heady, smoky spice twined with floral and earthy tones. “Oh, how desperately I love you.”

“As I love you, my angel.” Crowley didn’t untangle himself from Aziraphale, though he suddenly held two full glasses of 1929 _ Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru_. One was offered to Aziraphale, who smiled appreciatively. That smile. Crowley took a long moment to admire it. It was brighter than any star he had ever created. 

Aziraphale finally untangled himself from his beloved. “Saluteria,” crystal glasses sang when they touched. They returned to the sofa. Tchaikovsky was low in the background, as they continued to drink. Another six bottles, respectively.

Crowley was feeling restless. He needed an outlet for unspent energy. A hand reached for his iPhone, but the pocket was empty. He was a bit too drunk to remember where he had misplaced it. A snap silenced the somber notes on the gramophone. Another snap turned on his sound system. Wine glasses tinkled as long fingers took hold of not only his, but also Aziraphale’s. He rose and placed them aside. Crowley turned to him, “nobody puts Baby in a corner.” With an arm behind his back, the other was stretched out in offering, palm up, “Can I… tempt you to a dance?”

Alcohol fogged his head pleasantly and he lifted blue eyes to his husband. Anthony looked positively dapper in his white and lavender, which had miraculously remained mostly intact thus far. Though, his bowtie and the first few buttons of the collar hadn’t lasted too long upon returning home. For a moment, Aziraphale could only gaze up at him; majestic and beautiful; what the humans desperately attempted to capture in their art. But it was that ethereal otherworldliness to Anthony that made it nigh impossible to capture him. At last, he pulled himself from his reverie. Aziraphale beamed up at him, wiggling in absolute delight at the prospect. “Temptation accomplished.” He laid his hand delicately in Anthony’s.

After Armageddon that Wasn’t, they hadn’t been able to celebrate long. He had fucked that up for both of them properly by pushing Aziraphale away. Not a day passed that Crowley wasn’t celebrating for what they had fought for, and _ won_. Today felt like another victory for them. _Today? _ Had it been more than one? Crowley drew Aziraphale to his feet, and pulled him in close for a kiss that tasted of wine and his sweet angel. The song was upbeat, and Crowley felt the lyrics in his core on nights like this. Before he could get lost in the soft mouth beneath his own, Crowley spun Aziraphale out into what was intended to be a waltz, but Crowley was feeling a bit drunk, as he knew Aziraphale must do.

_ Get another bottle out, _

_ Let’s shoot the shit, _

_ Sit back down. _

It was a small miracle he didn’t hit something when he stretched his arm out. When he was drawn back in, Anthony’s free hand rested to his lower back. He was singing along with the music; passionately, a lot drunkenly, and very off pitch. Aziraphale smiled with brilliant radiance as he was swept off, a bit unbalanced for both of their parts, though that only erupted in conspiratorial giggles. Anthony then grew mockingly stern, and swept them back out again.

“He-here’s our part, angel! If they give ya’ hell!” He raised two middle fingers, as he shouted at the roof. Oscar howled along with him. “Tell’em go fuck‘emselves!” Crowley returned his hands to their former positions, and out they went again, serenading his poor angel throughout.

Aziraphale was absolutely besotted. Even when Anthony was quite silly, he was still effervescent and charismatic. The rug caught Anthony’s foot, and he stumbled a step before recovering. Aziraphale attempted to see if he was alright, biting back a grin. But he was drawn in again for another sweep around their living room. Aziraphale’s laughter mixed with the music and Anthony’s singing, which was more akin to caterwauling.

“Here's to us,” His gaze met blue, head bowing to touch brows. “Here’s to us.” Crowley fit their bodies together like two halves of one whole, then buried his face in the crook of his neck. Aziraphale was so soft and smelled like comfort and home.

They had remained like that for the remainder of the song, embracing and swaying slightly. Fingers swept through silky red curls, the other resting above rhythmic heartbeat. The day couldn’t have gone more perfectly. His heart was overflowing with love and joy, and he felt like he was enveloped in sunshine. Without Anthony, everything would have gone differently, and not only for Aziraphale. Heaven and Hell would have had their war. Billions of human lives would have been lost, as if they were of no significance. He was a miracle – a demon only in title. Aziraphale was Created to be his Destruction, yet still he was blessed with his affection. “I love you, Anthony.”

Crowley was bathed in… _ love, flashes of love. _Rather than a pulsing, it was a cleansing warmth that Crowley was enveloped in. He could feel it singing to his essence, his own luxuriating y he basked in Aziraphale’s angelic caress. It was a wholehearted and pure sensation, and he hugged Aziraphale tightly. It felt as if it had been an eternity since he felt such love envelope him. Crowley had to clear his throat before he lifted his head from Aziraphale’s neck, meeting eyes that glittered with affection. “I love you too, angel. More than anything in the whole universe.” The brilliant smile nearly destroyed him. Crowley would do anything to be on the receiving end of such appreciation for all eternity. The song had ended and left them with silence long ago. Crowley swept his knuckles over a soft cheek, flushed pink. God, he was beautiful.

Their mouths found one another, and Aziraphale sank against him. He tasted of wine, and spice when their tongues met. Arms encircled his neck beneath unbound curls, pulling Anthony into him. It was a deep kiss, lips wordlessly conveying adoration and reverence for the other. When they separated, they were both breathless. He had been thoroughly satisfied in the Bentley. Yet, Aziraphale looked imploringly at Anthony now, first meeting gold, then lowering to the mouth he wanted to feel against his own again.

He knew the look well now, and smiled in satisfaction. Crowley loved being the cause of it. “My god, you _ are _ an insatiable angel.” The pad of his thumb stroked over the swell of Aziraphale’s bottom lip, and _ fuck, _ the bastard turned his head and took the digit between his lips, tongue rolling as he sucked. He was decidedly _ much _ too drunk for this. Crowley wanted to nourish the joy that Aziraphale felt, to allow him a reprieve from his grief; a night without his thoughts heavily weighing him down. Yet as much as Crowley wanted to make love on their sofa, he was reluctant to do so. Aziraphale had confessed that he had been using sex as a distraction. Right now, Crowley didn’t want him ruminating; he wanted to show him that they still had so much to celebrate. His hands shook imperceptibly as he took Aziraphale by the shoulders, though he didn’t physically distance himself. To his own ears, the carefree tone he strove for was thick with the restraint he struggled with. “Angel, as much as I appreciate it -- and I really, _ really _appreciate it… I still have other plans for us.”

His gaze lingered on the expressive mouth as Anthony spoke. With glasses hiding Anthony’s gaze throughout most of their history, Aziraphale had had to rely on other ways to read Anthony. Irritation and surprise in the raise or furrow of brows, the movement of his lips, the set of his jaw, the almost imperceptible shake of his head. And how subtle most of those emotions had been. Anthony was quite adept at hiding how he felt. Their eyes met, the plea reflected in molten gold. Aziraphale knew that if he but asked, Anthony would give in to him. “What other plans do you have in mind, my love?”

Crowley’s hands slid down his arms, the right claiming Aziraphale’s left. Drawing the appendage up, he pressed a grateful kiss to knuckles. Crowley stumbled on his way to the sofa. “Angel, can I ask you something?”

Aziraphale settled into the right corner of their sofa, reclaiming the glass of wine passed to him. Anthony laid his head in his lap, red curls spilling over his thighs. “You may ask anything, my dearest.” When he raised his glass, he found it empty, and pouted. He hadn’t realized he had finished the wine.

“Have you ever tried anything… you know, a bit stronger than alcohol?” Crowley sat up to absently refill Aziraphale’s glass, then settled back against plump thighs.

“Thank you, my love.” He took a sip of the wine, considering. “Well, some derivative of opium has been around since Mesopotamia, and at the time, it seemed rather harmless enough. It also helped… _ after… _”

Crowley frowned. As much as he had been loath to do so, he had tried to encourage Aziraphale to acknowledge all the atrocities committed by Heaven. Now he was to blame for some of the angel’s scars. “Fuckin’ Shem.” He was drunk, and someone had to bear the burden of blame. “Killin’ off all the unicorns.”

Aziraphale was nursing his wine this time, small, delicate sips from a glass he had to cup with both hands to keep it steady. The mention of unicorns softened him much more easily with alcohol’s assistance. “Dearest, were you wanting to discuss unicorns? I wouldn’t mind entertaining the topic.” He raised the wineglass. Empty. He frowned down into it. “Anthony, are you drinking my wine when I’m not paying attention?”

_ Unicorns. _How had they wound up there? Crowley was struggling to find where his thoughts had been going. He was certainly too drunk, when he had already reminded himself not to drink more. But as his angel drank, he found that he did, as well. Aziraphale’s ridiculous question caught him off guard, and he glanced down at the emptied glass. Crowley grinned. “Aziraphale, you’re such a het—he? Whotever that word is for a person who’s a slut for life.” He refilled Aziraphale’s glass.

Aziraphale gaped in horror at Anthony, who was taking a gulp of wine. “Did you jus—“ And then he was suddenly choking and sputtering on the wine, and Aziraphale softened, patting a concerned hand to his back. “You can’t inhale wine, Anthony. Well, you _ can, _it’s just rather uncomfortable, I’d imagine.”

Crowley was more than horrified, and as he sucked in a breath to apologize, he choked on his wine in his haste to apologize. When he had finished coughing, Crowley rounded on Aziraphale. “Angel, I am so sorry. That was poor phrasing.” But Aziraphale was already tutting him into silence.

“I know, my dear. Perhaps because I’m quite past jingled, I was able to s-surmise that you meant I’m a hedonist.” Aziraphale was too drunk to hide his happy, smug little wiggle.

Crowley’s kiss to Aziraphale’s temple was quite dramatic. “Yes, you beautiful, smart angel. That’s ‘sisly what I meant.” Crowley recalled, at last, what had brought them to unicorns and hedonism in the first place. “Have _ you _ ever tried ‘nything like… abs-ab- _ absinthe _ o-or quaaludes or… fuck, I dunno… acid?” Crowley was on his feet, pacing restlessly.

Oscar claimed the warm sofa cushion that Anthony had abandoned, curling against Aziraphale’s hip. His free hand stroked over a soft side, fingers sliding through silken fur. Blue eyes followed Anthony as he prowled amongst the furniture. “_Well_, th-the stimit—“ That was a tough word. Aziraphale paused, and tried again, enunciating slowly. “Stig-ma-tiz-at-ion of recreational drugs is a fairly new construct. There had been a smattering of times that I…” Aziraphale deliberated his choice of wording. “… _ partook _ of opium with the young men at the discreet gentleman’s club.”

Crowley stopped before the couch, an eyebrow cocked. With his spot claimed, he sneered down at the beast. Oscar’s tail wagged enthusiastically. Crowley sighed in utter exasperation. “Off with ya’, Behemoth.” Oscar lifted his head to look up at him. Crowley growled, a menacing sound low in his throat. Oscar yapped delightedly. Crowley groaned, gave a pat to the mongrel, and then shooed him to his own canine bed. 

His smile was delighted and radiant as he watched the exchange. The fondness Anthony had for Oscar was ever so sweet, as Anthony had been adamantly against bringing the corgi home in the first place. When the space was empty, Aziraphale drew Anthony down onto the sofa with a gentle tug to the soft sweater vest. An arm slid around his shoulders, and Aziraphale sank into his warm side with a contented sigh. “Do humans typically use acid recreationally? How does one survive that?” He balanced his half-filled glass on Anthony’s thigh, red wine precariously close to pastel colors.

Crowley reared back, looking down at Aziraphale’s perplexed expression. He frowned. “Aci--_ whot? _No, angel… yanno, LSD…” Crowley rested his cheek against soft hair, fingers idly stroking up and down a bicep. 

Aziraphale nodded with understanding. “Ah, lysergic acid diethylamide.” 

His heaved sigh ruffled pale curls. “Seriously? You remember _ that _ , but not _ acid? _”

“It’s the proper terminology, Anthony. Of course I recall that over modern vernacular.”

Crowley sighed again, just as theatrically. “Point taken. So, what, you’d go out dancing, drinking, and doing drugs all night at the discreet gentleman’s club?”

Aziraphale bristled, and sat up to give him a properly stern look. His wine sloshed, but didn’t spill. “I did not actively go out and seek drugs, Anthony. I have standards.” Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “But if it were offered to me, it would be rude to decline.”

Crowley’s head fell back against the sofa with his bark of laughter. “You’re so molly-coddled, Aziraphale.” He looked fondly over at his offended angel.

“What does that even _ mean_?” Aziraphale feigned innocence, finishing his wine.

Crowley cackled again. “Oh, come off it, angel. You damn well know what it means. Prob’ly invented it.”

Affronted, he stumbled over his words, “I did no—how dar—That is most untrue.” Aziraphale glared indignantly.

Crowley grinned. “I love you with every fiber of my essence, angel. But you’re very much a princess.”

Aziraphale considered this earnestly. He gave a gentle nudge to the alcohol that coursed through his system, shoving away some of the fog, returning alcohol to the numerous bottles littered around them. He placed his empty glass down.

_ A rattle of chains as they dropped to cold, wet stone. _

_ A breath blown to remove a blue paint stain. _

_ Books saved from being blown to bits. _

_'Yes, alright. I’ll do that one. My treat.’ _

He _ was _ a bit of a brat. How shameful of him. “Oh, dear. You’ve always been so infinitely generous, and I’m afraid I’ve taken advantage of that. You prefer the funny ones, yet you still made gloomy Hamlet a success. I’m so sorry, Anthony.”

Crowley frowned at the pout, gaze lifting to meet pale blue eyes. There was a subtle clarity in the angel’s gaze. Crowley wasn’t theatrical or dramatic when he shrugged off some of his own intoxication, but clung to the familiarity of teetering just past tipsy. He could think better. “Angel, I love every opportunity you allow me to sweep in and be the hero you need. In _ whatever _way you need. I live for those moments.” His knuckles were gentle over the swell of a cheek that was forever soft.

Aziraphale curled his fingers around the hand, nestling his cheek against his palm. Beneath his touch, he could feel tendons, veins, and muscle, yet his skin was silk drawn taut over steel. “Lord, Anthony. Thank you for allowing me to be soft.” Aziraphale pressed his hands to his chest, and through the fabric he could feel lean muscles. When their mouths met, Aziraphale melted against his beloved’s strength. Anthony’s infinite kindness towards Aziraphale made him feel many things – love, awe, and delight, to name a few. He had been starved for companionship, and Anthony had fulfilled the need thoroughly. It stirred something primal in him.

Crowley was assuredly glad that he wasn’t so utterly smashed presently. When soft lips found his own, he was nearly a goner. For a moment, he allowed himself to sink into the kiss. A hand tenderly cradled the side of Aziraphale’s lovely features, the other curving around his right bicep. Their tongues met, tasting and caressing. Crowley nearly drew Aziraphale down onto the sofa, but instead, used his grip on Aziraphale’s bicep to draw back, putting distance between them. He could find no wit for defense, and instead settled on a low, mock-stern voice. “Aziraphale, humor me for a bit. If you behave, like my good little angel, we can indulge in whotever naughty thing you want, for as long as you want. Deal?” With a hand still cupped to Aziraphale’s face, his thumb was free to trace over lovely bottom lip.

_ Oh… _that voice. Velvety gravel. Domineering and commanding, but paradoxically tender and loving. It sent tingles racing down his spine, and made him uncomfortably aware of just how fitted his new trousers were. “I do believe I will hold you accountable for this deal, my love.” Aziraphale withdrew back to his proper spot on the sofa, settled into the corner. “Oh! Should I fetch more wine from the cellar?” He made to stand.

A halting hand was rested on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I do believe we’ve had enough wine tonight. We’re prob’ly gonna need to get another shipment delivered soon.”

He was stunned. “Shipment delivery?”

“Oh-ah, yeah. We drink… _ a lot, _angel. You know, if we were humans, we’d prob’ly be considered alcoholics. Functioning alcoholics, mind, but alcoholics nonetheless.”

Aziraphale looked about their living room. It reflected the hours they had spent drinking. “Does it count as alcoholism if you drink with someone? I thought that was called social drinking?”

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale. “You know, I think you’re right. Social drinking. But are we really being all that social? We’re alone in our cottage, jus’ the two of us. Though, everyone else can bugger off, for all I care.”

Aziraphale raised a finger as he made his point. “Right. But there’s more than just one of us. There’s two. Bob’s your uncle, social drinking.”

Crowley glared at him, because he very well could put forth further argument, but Aziraphale was just too damned adorable. For pretense sake, he parroted incredulously, “_ Bob’s your uncle? _” Crowley unfolded himself from the sofa and miracled up the mess that had accumulated. He watched Aziraphale stand, and cross to the window. The tartan curtain was twitched closed, blocking out the sunlight that must have risen at some point.

Aziraphale turned to Anthony, who had settled on the edge of the sofa, fiddling with a hookah that most certainly hadn’t been there before. The vase was blown glass, black as the empty space between stars. It glittered with brilliant cuts of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, all of which formed a cluster of stars, made in the image of the night sky. The base of the stem was onyx, bleeding into Egyptian blue, then Royal blue. Cerulean lightened into a pale, iridescent powder blue that had become threaded with thin tendrils of molten gold and crimson. The single tube was pearl white, with swirls of pale grey, and glittered with diamonds that sparkled, reminisce of celestial pillars above. Already in the pale blue, gold gilded trey was a bowl painted with celestial clouds, and covered with a charcoal screen. Aziraphale perched on the sofa beside his husband. “What is this?”

Crowley glanced up from rearranging the coals precisely, then back down to the hookah. “I was hoping that perhaps we could experiment with marijuana together?”

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed pensively. He had no objections to the use of mind altering agents; if he had, he certainly wouldn’t have consumed nearly so much wine. “When you phrase it like that, I suppose it would be heinous of me to decline.” Aziraphale’s smile answered Anthony’s delighted grin. Two fingertips touched unexpectedly to Anthony’s tongue, a spark flaring to life. It suddenly felt a bit harder to breathe. While his focus was intent on heating the coals, Aziraphale had to bite his bottom lip. _ Must be the wine_, but oh, how Aziraphale felt particularly amorous. It only made the want for his beautiful husband sweeter, the longer he was made to wait.

_ A glide of an artist’s hand along the outside of his thigh, holding it to narrow hips. It shifted the angle of Anthony’s thrusts, and Aziraphale clung to the back of the sofa. Anthony’s mouth was a warm caress against his ear as he panted, breathlessly, “you feel so good, angel.” _

Crowley was practically vibrating with excitement. He hadn’t smoked since the ‘70’s, and now he was hoping to experience another first with Aziraphale; a rare occurrence for beings that were older than the creation of time. “Ready?”

_ Aziraphale. _The repeat of his name jerked his gaze up, forcing him back to the present. He had become a bit breathless, cheeks flushed. “S-sorry, what was that?”

The hookah was in working order, but there had been no option for otherwise. “I asked if you were ready to begin.” Crowley nearly succumbed to the intensity of Aziraphale’s heated look, as if they had been in the midst of impassioned kisses. Crowley swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, and shifted his weight onto his right hip. “Azir—ange—you can’t look at me like that all night.”

He was unaware of the way his eyes were an admission of how much he ached for him. “My apologies, Anthony. I agreed to behave, and I would be remiss to not uphold my end of our bargain.” Aziraphale took a moment to collect himself, palms smoothing over his jumper and slacks. He reached for the hose that Anthony offered to him; fingers grazed lightly over slender digits. The smoke was smooth as silk as it was drawn into his lungs, the taste of strawberry and kiwi, as rich as the actual fruit on his tongue. Aziraphale coughed politely against the crook of his elbow. He had been too confident in his inhale, and was paying for it. Anthony’s hand soothingly rubbed his back, while offering a glass of water. When the burn had subsided, Aziraphale whet his tongue, then placed the glass aside. His second drag was slower, cautious, his breath held.

Left elbow pressed to his knee, and he rested his head on his knuckles. Aside from the coughing fit, he seemed to be doing better now. Crowley tried to school his voice, to hide his uncertainty. “Do you like it? We can try something else, or I can get more wine.”

Aziraphale touched a reassuring hand to his sweet husband’s knee. “Anthony, it is positively sublime.” Aziraphale took one more pull from white mouthpiece, and then offered it to him.

Relieved, Crowley took a draw, the smoke thick and light as it was breathed in. As they smoked, sharing the tube as they did, they settled more comfortably into the sofa.

Crowley was settled back into the left arm of the old sofa. His right leg was cocked up, the left outstretched across the floor. Aziraphale reclined against his chest, his body relaxed. With arms folded over his chest, he buried his face into blonde curls. His hair was unbelievably soft, and Crowley groaned lowly in his throat, rubbing his cheek against silky, platinum wisps. They had been mostly quiet, each lost to their own thoughts. It was a comfortable silence that neither felt the need to fill. Crowley could easily grow accustomed to how serene his angel felt in his embrace. 

As they had smoked, Anthony had become more undressed. His white Oxfords had been the first to go, followed by his heavy watch, and then his sweater vest. With the sleeves of his lavender shirt rolled up, Aziraphale trailed his fingertips over lean muscles slowly, admiringly. Bebop played quietly in the background, and Anthony resumed his quiet humming. He felt safe and warm, and protected from the outside world. Though it had never been his own existence he had feared for. It had been Anthony’s. Held so securely, his anxiety couldn’t find a foothold. Aziraphale relished the freedom from his own inner demons. “I feel positively delightful.”

Aziraphale practically purred in contentment as he spoke, and Crowley grinned into pale hair. “This reminds me of that feast. You remember the one I’m talkin’ about? Th-the one in uh…” He trailed off, trying to recall.

Aziraphale supplied helpfully, “In Babylon?”

“Yesss… precisely that one.” Aziraphale would have stood out to Crowley, even in a sea of other blondes. But at the feast, he had been a heavenly beacon, one that he was eternally drawn to. “That’d been a bloody good time.”

“I think your memory is a bit hazy, love.” His head dipped to the side, resting in the curve of his shoulder. “_OhmyLord _, did you invent Snuggies?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He was preparing to give Aziraphale a dissertation on the events long since transpired, but instead, he had to defend his honor. Crowley was scandalized for the first time that he could presently recall. “Did I—Are you kid—_ Whot? _”

“Oh dear, have I offended you? Are they not in vogue?” Aziraphale craned his head, twisting slightly. He met gold eyes, which smiled down at him fondly, though Anthony’s mouth was curved in a frown. 

“I just don’t know why you would say something so hurtful.” Aziraphale had returned to his former position. Once he was settled, Crowley re-crossed both arms over his chest.

“Because you give the most amazing hugs.” Anthony grunted into his hair, and Aziraphale grinned lazily; happily.

“How d’you even know about Snuggies, angel?” It was hard to maintain a tough façade when Aziraphale was being sweetly adorable.

“How anyone else does, love… whenever you’re watching your cinematographic shows.” Aziraphale sighed, and melted against his chest.

Crowley grunted again, because the angel’s dated verbiage was equal measure exasperating and endearing. But then, the previous accusation returned to the forefront of his thoughts. “Oy. Wot makes you think that my memory is faulty?” He sounded affronted.

“Oh, dear. Well, you got so sloshed that you thought you were going to discorporate. You begged me to take pity on you, and smite you.” Anthony had been dramatically draped on stone steps as he had made the plea. “It was a beautiful performance, truly.”

Crowley frowned, not certain which point to take argument with first. “Firstly, rude. I never beg. Sec—“

“You beg me all the time -- to not do my magic tricks, to not bring Oscar home – and need I remind you how beneficial that had turned out? You’ve begged me to _ get with the times _ and get a cellular telephone prior to our cohabitation, and—“

“I swear to Mum, Aziraphale, you can be a right bastard sometimes.” Crowley glared for a moment at Aziraphale’s profile, though there was no heat to it. A deep breath. “Secondly… Alcohol and I used to have a mutual understanding. I would abuse it, and it would numb my crippling emotions. Perhaps _ your _memory is faulty, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Anthony, that was when we deduced how to sober up. You said you would rather take a Sulphur bath than have to tell Hastur that you needed a new body because alcohol discorporated you. So I ask again, what was your point, dear?”

“M’point, angel, was that I never wanted the night to end. But I knew it had to. But now? I don’t have to worry about this ending.” Long fingers trailed down the side of Aziraphale’s neck, above the stiff collar of white shirt.

“Oh, you are absolutely right, dear. That had been a wonderful celebration. Do you recall what it was for?” Soft skin prickled under the caress. Aziraphale angled his head, exposing more of his throat.

“Y’anno, I can’t ‘member.” But now he wasn’t expending too much thought on that. His attention had focused on bare flesh, and teasing fingertips lightly along it. Crowley marveled at the goosebumps that followed his touch.

Aziraphale whimpered quietly, without realizing he had done so. He shifted slightly between Anthony’s thighs, readjusting the suddenly tighter fit of his trousers. But then, he perked up a bit, excitedly. “When things turned a bit sour, you drunkenly wrote on the wall. It caused pandemonium. I was quite impressed.”

Crowley almost struggled to keep up with the sudden shift from serene angel, to excited angel. “Really? That impressed you? Eh-ah, no, yeah. ‘Course I knew it did. It felt wrong letting them desecrate what they assumed were God’s chalices, with an angel being in attendance.” 

“But once we had departed the festivities, you laid out on the steps.” Aziraphale failed at suppressing a giggle. “Speaking of feasts. I’m afraid I’ve grown peckish, my dear.”

“What are you in the mood for, angel? The Ritz?” Aziraphale made no move to get up, so neither did Crowley. He rested his cheek on the curve of his left shoulder, and nuzzled against the soft fabric of his cardigan.

Aziraphale shifted again, this time turning to face Anthony. “Sushi sounds like the most scrumptious thing presently.”

“Do you want me to get your coat? We can go to that little restaurant you love.” But even as it was suggested, Aziraphale frowned. With marijuana and remnants of alcohol clouding his head, Crowley had allowed himself holiday from everything except this moment. He had forgotten that he had died, that it had destroyed Aziraphale, and that Aziraphale hadn’t been coping well – _ at all_. Of course he wouldn’t want to leave. “Y’anno Aziraphale, I’m afraid I’m not in the mood to go out. Do you want to have something delivered?”

Aziraphale couldn’t have loved Anthony more at that moment. He was so blessed to have such a wonderful, thoughtful husband. But then, his eyes grew suddenly wide with the prospect. “They deliver sushi?”

“They deliver loads of stuff these days, angel. They have multiple apps…” Blue eyes blinked in confusion at him, “...and yanno what, nevermind. So, sushi?” Aziraphale’s steadfast resistance to the change of times could be considered quirky. It was a trait that Crowley admired and was equally exasperated with. He reached for his pocket, where his phone should have been. Again, it had slipped his mind that it had shattered on Heavenly floors. Before he could miracle up another, Aziraphale interjected.

“Mm, perhaps not. It probably wouldn’t be very good by the time it got here, and as much as I positively adored your sweets in Heaven… there’s just something about sushi freshly made by lovely humans.” Aziraphale returned to his former position, contemplating what delicacy would make a good replacement for his current craving.

Aziraphale hadn’t even pouted at him before turning around. That wouldn’t do. _ If my angel wants fresh sushi, my angel is getting fresh fucking sushi. _

Unexpected, timid knocking drew his attention towards their front door. A quick glance over his shoulder at Anthony. He couldn’t hide the sudden rise of panic that began to claw at his insides.

“Relax, angel. Come on, let’s go see who it is.” Aziraphale was hesitant to get up. Crowley untangled himself, and fell over the back of the sofa. He was on his feet within the next moment, and rounding the sofa to hold a hand out to Aziraphale.

He trusted Anthony, above all else. But they weren’t expecting visitors. It wasn’t a good omen. With his heart in his throat, he placed his left hand in Anthony’s right, and was drawn to his feet. Oscar had stirred enough only to lazily lift his head, then returned to his nap. Each step felt like it was taken through quicksand, threatening to pull him down into infinite depths of hopeless isolation. “An…” Aziraphale hadn’t realized that he’d come to a stop, or that Anthony was looking at him with open concern. Fingers tore desperately at his tartan bow tie.

“Hey, hey, here.” Crowley loosened the tie, then undid the first few shirt buttons. Palms molded to soft cheeks, and he drew Aziraphale’s gaze up. Unshed tears danced in blue eyes. Sobriety cleared his head. “Take a deep breath, Aziraphale.” But he didn’t. Not until Crowley demonstrated for him, as if Aziraphale had forgotten how his lungs functioned. “Tell me what you need.” Crowley’s voice was gentle, yet firm.

“Don’t leave me.” Fingers clung desperately to Anthony’s right wrist, grounding him When his eyes closed, he could still feel him. Anthony’s palms were warm and reassuring as they cradled his cheeks. Beneath his own hand, he could feel tendons and taut muscles. Another breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. _ I love long nights drinking with Anthony. I love time spent with a book while Anthony watches his cinematographic shows. I love that I can depend on him, and he won’t let me down. _It was easier, finding the other side of panic. Worry over just what may be on the other side of their front door lingered, but it was no longer paralyzing. Aziraphale longed for a flaming sword, just as a precaution.

The smile that Aziraphale flashed up at him lacked the usual radiance, but Crowley couldn’t fault him for that. As Aziraphale had lost himself, Crowley had, discreetly, paused time. It could have remained stopped indefinitely, if that was how long his angel needed. But the moment hadn’t stretched as long as the other previous ones had. Aziraphale didn’t need to know that time had stopped for him, so Crowley willed it to resume. Reclaiming his hand, he led Aziraphale down the narrow entryway.

Anthony opened the front door. There was a crunch of bone, blood glittering like rubies on the jagged, malicious blade. Lavender turned black with blood, which sprinkled over a waistcoat that had seen better days, and an antiquated coat. He blinked hard, hands frantically wiping at his clothes. When he looked down, he found his cardigan was immaculate – even after many, _ many _hours spent drinking. His heart had found itself buried in his throat, but he used the very real and intact Anthony before him to anchor himself to the present. Fingers curled into the pale purple shirt, fist resting against his spine. As the door opened, Anthony filled the archway. Beneath his touch, Aziraphale could feel the cording of taut muscles.

Mere moments before, Dai Saito had gone from one step that crossed marble floors, to the next, taken on concrete that ended abruptly at a Robin’s egg blue door. He turned, stock taken of an immaculate, old car, where mere moments before had been an upscale sushi restaurant in Japan. Darkness was an empty abyss, the heaviness of silence speaking volumes of their utter isolation. A silent curse, _ nantekotta. _ With no other options, Dai knocked tentatively. 

Moments later, it was answered by a towering man, who braced a hand nonchalantly across the doorway. The scent of sweet smoke and alcohol was pervasive, though that was quickly overshadowed by the man’s intimidatingly large, and unearthly presence; inconceivable to Dai’s unprepared, mortal mind.

He hadn’t realized that night had fallen, _ when had that happened? _ Crowley knew that the darkness disconcerted the humans, and he would have turned on their porch light for the kid if he’d been more aware of their surroundings. Crowley slouched against the hand that clutched the doorframe, swaying slightly towards the young human, assessing whether he posed a threat to his angel. Straight black hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and a small black swirl of ink peaked above a starched white collar, hinting of a tattoo beneath. He smelled of fear. “Oh, ah, no worries, mate.” His voice was a slow, lazy drawl.

Dai knew he shouldn’t be here. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run, but he found himself rooted to the spot. Whether the man was of ill repute or not mattered litte. The platter trembled in his hands. At last, he nervously inquired, “Mōshiwakearimasenga, watashi wa doko ni imasu ka?”

He slipped under Anthony’s protective arm, which curled loosely over his shoulders. Anthony leaned into him, and unabashedly nuzzled his neck. Aziraphale smiled brightly, laughing quietly when lips found sensitive skin. The terror had abated when he had deduced their present situation. His expression softened as he looked upon the poor, petrified boy. The quiet, Japanese question posed was translated rather quickly, grateful it wasn’t French. “Oh, _ Kon'nichiwa _ _ . _” Aziraphale tried to frown disapprovingly at Anthony for frightening the poor human, but the enticing display of artfully crafted sushi and sashimi was just what he had been yearning for. His voice was soothing and kind, in an attempt to assuage the boy’s confusion for his sudden appearance in the South Downs. “Ah, anata wa genzai, Igirisu de itte mōshiwake arimasen.” 

Abruptly, sunshine blended with the powerful, predatory energy, a blonde man appearing from beneath the extended arm. They were the darkness, and light -- darkness shielding the light from blinding, and the light taming the dark into a gentle glow. The situation was perplexing, but Dai no longer felt as though he might find his demise under such peculiar circumstances. “Igirisu?” The United Kingdom? That made no sense… 

“I dunno whot you just said, but I could listen to you go on in Japanese forever.” Crowley was loathe to untangle himself from his tempting angel, but at last, he turned to the human kid to gently take the platter from him.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, his cheeks suddenly warm. “My dear, should we invite him in for a cuppa tea? The poor boy is positively terrified.” Anthony was already turning away, effectively dismissing the human that had been dropped in the most curious of situations. In an attempt to make amends for disrupting his night, Aziraphale withdrew from his pocket several meticulously wrapped stacks of yen. “Korera subete ni tsuite sumimasen. Watashi no otto wa sukoshi nesshin sugiru kamo shiremasen.” A hand was held aloft between angel and human, apologizing for his husband’s poor manners, while offering the wrapped currency to him. The boy hesitantly took the rolls of bills, and with his free hand, Aziraphale snapped as he sometimes did when concluding one of Anthony’s miracles. 

Dai Saito awoke in his bed at his parent’s home, the night a fading dream. He shook out his clothes from the previous evening, which had oddly been left in a heap on the floor. Several thick, heavy rolls of yen rolled across the floor. 

For many long weeks, Dai waited to hear news of a bank or some other establishment that had been robbed. Anything that could explain the blank spot in his memory, and the sudden appearance of more currency than he had ever hoped to have.

When no news came, Dai allowed himself to hope. Whatever had happened that he couldn’t recall, he owed his life to it. Part of the money was used to purchase a quaint, yet respectable house, with enough left to be saved for emergencies. His sudden financial stability proved that he could provide a comfortable life for his girlfriend, to her once reluctant parents. It was with their blessing, that Dai and Kiyoko married. Their life was filled with the highs and lows that came with 78 years of marriage. The highs seemed to shine brighter, the love a bit fiercer; their loving bond unfaltering. Surrounded by their children, and their children’s children, and their children’s, children’s, children, Dai and Kiyoko were greeted by Death within hours of one another, after living long, loving, and fulfilling lives together. Together, they made a new life in the Thereafter, hand in hand.

Crowley placed the platter of raw fish beside their hookah, then followed Aziraphale into the kitchen. While he fetched two wine glasses and the bottle opener – again, Crowley opened the door that led down into their wine cellar. It was expansive, housing crates of expensive wines of various brands and vintages. Socked feet were silent as he crossed the cold stone floor. There was an earthy aroma to the cavernous room, racks of wine built into stone walls. Crowley collected nine bottles of a burgundy wine that they hadn’t had in a handful of decades.

Aziraphale was seated primly on the edge of their sofa when Anthony returned. Oscar’s chin rested on his knee, and he gave long, slow strokes over silky fur. Unopened bottles were added to an already crowded table. Before Anthony could open the first, Aziraphale claimed a fistful of lavender shirt. The grip was used to pull Anthony to him, guiding him between his parted legs. Oscar sighed theatrically and sought entertainment elsewhere. Aziraphale leaned into him, his head angled back, and his chin resting on the flat expanse of Anthony’s abdomen. Explorative hands slid up the outside of thin, muscled thighs, then redirected to rest and grip Anthony’s pert, taut backside.. “Thank you, my love. For everything. You are truly the most remarkable being, and positively the most transcendent partner.”

Crowley slunk down in the embrace, the wine he had been holding rolling across the rug. The remarkable, pale blue eyes he met always seemed to sparkle ethereally. “You’re just easily impressed, s’all.” A palm molded to the underside of Aziraphale’s chin, long fingers dimpling into perpetually soft cheeks. He studied the soft lips that parted slightly; inviting. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve Aziraphale. But if all he had to do was sacrifice himself to be worthy of such perfection, he would do so willingly. The fair angel had taught Crowley what it truly meant to love in all of its intricate, complicated beauty. “I am eternally bound to you.” His thumb traced over the swell of his bottom lip. Pink tongue made an appearance, a light caress against the pad of his finger. His voice was a low growl, thick with just how much he wanted Aziraphale. “But you most certainly aren’t behaving right now.”

Aziraphale had to bite his lip, silencing his whimper. There was an unspoken promise that Anthony would satiate all of his urges, when it was time. Aziraphale contemplated reminding him that there was no better time than the present. All they had was the present. But he was finally realizing that Anthony wasn’t denying him. Since his Destruction and Ascension, they had fallen into bed together whenever Aziraphale needed a distraction from his thoughts, or a reminder that Anthony was well and truly with him. For all of Aziraphale’s fretting, Anthony was reminding him that, while he couldn’t guarantee one moment to the next, they could still find enjoyment together in the Earthly pleasures they had grown fond of. Anthony looked at him questioningly. Aziraphale had only but to ask Anthony to take him to their bed, and he would. “I suppose it would be bordering on sinful to allow all of that sushi to go to waste.”

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale. His angel was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for. “And what angelic beings would we be, if we allowed such a sin into our home?” He lived for the giggles that Aziraphale erupted into. The bottle that had rolled just out of reach was retrieved. “I may not be the finest sommelier in Rome, or even in our cottage, but I do have the advantage of knowing what wines you enjoy.” While Crowley popped the cork, Aziraphale plucked a delicate and colorful sushi roll with expertly handled chopsticks. After it was dipped first in soy sauce, he brought it to his lips. Crowley didn’t realize he had stopped pouring the wine. All of his attention was devoted to Aziraphale, his eyes closed as he savored the flavor. And then he moaned his appreciation, and Crowley nearly lost his tentative restraint. _ Fuck. _His shaking hands spoke volumes of just how little control he had.

Crowley placed Aziraphale’s glass of wine within reach, though he remained seated on the floor. Gold eyes watched him with a heavy intensity that wasn’t hidden behind black sunglasses. An elbow rested on the coffee table, near the platter of Japanese delicacies, his fist supporting his chin. He watched with rapt fascination, unblinkingly. It was almost an intimate moment, the way Aziraphale took pleasure and delight as he ate. It was more than arousing. It spoke to Crowley spiritually. As angelic beings, it was supposed to be programmed into their cosmic DNA that they were to be subservient to God, that they existed only at Their behest. It hadn’t always been that way. He could remember snatches of impossibly far off memories…

_ He held up a hand, squinting with a tilt of his head to measure the placement of two recently completed galaxies. It was the finishing touches, and if he didn’t get the placement precise, the two would eventually collide. _

“_Are you still at it, Samael? _”

_ He whirled guiltily to face God, hands burying in the folds of flowing white robes. White wings, speckled in gold, lazily fluttered behind him. Words fell out of his mouth in a jumbled mess before he could find a coherent sentence. “Oh, yeah, n-no.” A repentant sigh blew an errant, crimson curl from his face. “Yes.” _

_ God turned away from studying Samael’s work. “I know how critical you are of yourself. But it’s truly beautiful. Now stop making me seek you out or I’ll put you in time out.” _

_ He’d forgotten what he had been in the middle of before God had popped over. _ _ Ah well, that was a problem for future Samael to resolve. _

Even though they hadn’t been together, Aziraphale reminded Crowley of Heaven. The way it had been before God had stepped back; a time when they had been allowed to find happiness and contentment. Aziraphale’s blatant love of everything, his indulgences in earthly things… it was more than captivating. It was the part of Heaven he had mourned the loss of so profoundly. But now, he had better than anything he could have ever hoped for. Aziraphale made his Fall from Grace worth every awful, painful moment.

Aziraphale would never grow accustomed to the way Anthony watched him sometimes, but especially as he ate. The intensity of it was no longer hindered by dark sunglasses. Aziraphale dabbed a morsel-sized _ tako nigirizushi _ into wasabi _ , _ then brought it to his mouth. He was unaware that his blue eyes had rolled with the burst of flavor on his tongue, or that he had audibly moaned. “That is positively _ divine. _ Thank you, Anthony.” He rested his chopsticks on the platter precisely. As Aziraphale reached for his glass of wine, Anthony opened the fourth bottle. He hadn’t seen him drink the first few, but they huddled together haphazardly. 

After the intensity of his panic, he found himself on the wrong side of sobriety. The wine glasses they were currently drinking from were deep bowled, and when he lowered it, it was already empty. Anthony refilled it. Alcohol was a companion they had both leaned on heavily throughout history. Marijuana was a welcome guest. “Anthony, would you mind relighting…?”

There it was. That little pout of his bottom lip. If there had ever been any resistance in Crowley’s need to give absolutely everything to Aziraphale, he had only to pout at him thusly. Crowley sat up quite abruptly from his casual lounging on the floor. Narrow hips slid between thighs that had tempted him for over six millennia. They were married, and lived together. Yet Aziraphale was still as irresistible to him now as he had been that far off day atop The Wall. Crowley kissed away the pout, equal parts because he was able to do so at long last, and partly because it was far more chaste than what he really wanted to do. It was a long, deep, and thorough kiss that left Aziraphale flushed and breathless. “Anything for you.” New coals were added with a snap, though the necessity to add more marijuana and shisha was a human problem. 

The song that played unobtrusively in the background changed, replaced with notes that flirted lightly through the air. Crowley couldn’t resist humming merrily along. _ Navigating the space, we’ll create our own star. And I’ll name it after you. _Fingertips to tongue sparked and crackled, the coals glowing instantly red and hot beneath his touch. A shake of his hand extinguished his fingers. He had kept tune with the song by tapping the fingers of his free hand on the coffee table. A few puffs were taken first to ensure that it would be in proper order for Aziraphale.

_ ‘Cause after all we’re only one triumphant bang away, _

_ from resting in infinity or darkness or some brighter place. _

_ Let’s not waste one more second on caring about, _

_ trying to figure out what looks right. _

_'cause that can’t take away that you’re mine. _

They often found themselves struggling to say aloud what they had kept internalized for six millennia. Anthony had managed to express himself in other ways – poetry, theatre, and music, all saying what he could not. Had Aziraphale always known that, or was the wine and marijuana to blame? But now that they were safe, they didn’t have to hide. Aziraphale leaned back into the crook of their sofa. “Do you recall Hamlet?” Fingers caressed lightly over Anthony’s as he took the hosing.

It was innocent and arousing. Crowley had never wanted to break or corrupt the innocence, he had only ever wanted to luxuriate in it. And maybe try to, usually unsuccessfully, tempt the occasional swear or naughty word. _ Hadn’t he asked a question? _Aziraphale was on his second hit by the time Crowley collected himself. “In action, how like an angel. In apprehension, how like a god.” Anyone else asking a question with such an obvious answer would have been met with derision, but Aziraphale was supplied a quote from the play in question.

Aziraphale returned the hose to Anthony. “The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals.”

Crowley draped his lanky body along the coffee table. “And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?” He took another long drag, then passed it back to Aziraphale.

His head fell back, and Aziraphale drew in a long, deep breath. The physical burden bearing years of abuse and fear fell away, his body light. Though it was a breath thick with satiny smoke, it felt cleansing; relief in a stolen moment when previously they had been drowning. And then his gaze fell on Anthony; the way the light shimmered on a sharply angled cheekbone, as if tanned skin was brushed with fine golden dust. He was breathtaking as he recited the long since perished playwright. “You are quite beautiful, Anthony.” The marijuana left him light and airy. He could almost feel the breeze caressing white feathers in those moments before he took flight. A strong hand suddenly clamped around his right ankle, and Aziraphale fell back to the present with a start. “Was that an earthquake?”

For a moment, his heart lunged to his throat when Aziraphale began levitating like a possessed human from a horror film. Wings that were almost ethereally transparent unfurled from Heaven, then turned white as they found the Earthly realm. Crowley was mesmerized into paralysis for a moment. But Aziraphale had begun to float towards the ceiling, his wings draped behind him. Crowley leapt high enough to grip an ankle, dragging him back to the safety of the sofa. Blue eyes were wide and bewildered, and Crowley cackled in absolute delight. “How high are you, angel?” Aziraphale sank into the back of the sofa, wings disheveled and draped along cushions. The hookah tubing was retrieved from the floor then unnecessarily cleaned off. After a deep pull of thick, smooth smoke, it was passed to Aziraphale.

He glanced first around him. Perhaps he was more inebriated than he had realized, if the state of him was any say on the matter. _ Perfect _ . Sobriety was far behind him. When he glanced up at Anthony, he was still grinning. It was such a carefree, happy smile that had only increased in frequency once they had finally allowed themselves to be together. “You’re such a _ rogue. _” Aziraphale rolled his eyes dramatically at Anthony’s strangled sounds. Aziraphale took a long, deep inhale. He waggled the hose at Anthony. “But to answer your question, yes. I am quite rocked.”

Crowley couldn’t feign exasperation. He grinned wide, absolutely delighted. “It’s stoned, angel. Jesus.”

“Yes! Precisely. I am _ quite _stoned.” Aziraphale beamed down at Anthony. He had stretched forward to rest his chin on Aziraphale’s knee. Fingers swept red curls back from his brow lovingly. The music in the background was an eclectic mix of classical compositions and modern bebop. Though Aziraphale was slowly growing accustomed to, and perhaps even enjoy, the bebop that Anthony played. The woman’s voice was happy and light as she sang. It reminded him how much he loved music. “We should go to Albert Hall this Christmas.” 

_ Your touch is sunlight through the trees, _

_ Your kisses are the ocean breeze, _

_ Everything’s alright when you’re with me. _

Crowley stared up at the angel who looked down at him with such open love and affection. It was a look that Crowley sometimes couldn’t fathom, when he found himself so unworthy of love. But right now, he was flying amongst the stars and smiled lazily; besotted. “Absolutely. Wait, when is Christmastime? Did we miss it? Can Christmas ever be missed if it’ll just come back ‘round the next year?” Crowley sat up now, and again reached for the iPhone that he persisted in forgetting to miracle himself a new one of. Rather than continuing to search for the date, Crowley looked Aziraphale over once more. “Angel, when was the last time you groomed your wings?”

Aziraphale frowned at Anthony, though his question had held no condemnation; only curiosity. Cheeks heated crimson with his shame and embarrassment, and he looked guiltily down at his lap. “It must have been recently, mustn’t it?” The neglected state of typically pristine wings was hidden where they would not only be folded, but tucked away from the mortal plane. “When was the last time you groomed yours?”

Crowley scowled at Aziraphale. It had been a clumsy attempt to distract him. His smile was sweet, and Crowley only glared more intensely. His angel remained undaunted, expression politely patient. He plucked the hose from Crowley’s slackened grip, and brought it to his perfect, pink mouth. “Few days ago… I think. Not the point. My point was just that I wanted to ask if you’d allow me to groom them. Your wings. I-i-if that’s a’right…”

“Oh, Anthony. I apologize for growing defensive.” After giving the proposition consideration, he finally shook his head. “It may take much too long, and I would hate to become any more of a chore than I—“ He did not get to finish the sentence.

“Never, since Eden, have I ever considered anything pertaining to you as a chore. Even when you insist that we can’t just miracle something up ‘cause craftsmanship is important.” Aziraphale’s hands were lifted, gold eyes meeting blue as he pressed firm, lingering kisses to the ridge of knuckles. “It’ll give me something to do with my hands; idle hands an’ the devil’s workshop an’ all.”

Aziraphale very nearly swooned. Anthony tried to be glib, but he saw through the pretense. “You know, Anthony. It’s as I’ve always said…” He didn’t get to finish the sentiment. Anthony’s mouth claimed his own, silencing him. Aziraphale smiled happily against the kiss. With a grip on his shirt, he slid to the edge of the sofa, and then lowered himself carefully to the floor with Anthony. His tongue danced along full, bottom lip, teeth following, capturing soft flesh, tugging teasingly. Anthony growled against his mouth, and Aziraphale grinned briefly, smugly. His hands found broad shoulders, but before he could crawl into Anthony’s lap, strong hands gripped his hips.

Crowley broke the kiss with a gasped breath, fingers clenching fistfuls of grey fabric. It softened his touch on the swell of Aziraphale’s hips. His gaze shifted up from a pouting mouth to meet beloved pale, blue eyes. Oh, how the memory of them had plagued him from the moment loathsome, serpent eyes had met soulful cerulean. “Angel, I’m but a humble servant to your heart. If you so desire that I take you to bed, I will; gladly.” A hand relinquished its harsh grip on soft fabric, fingers tracing over scapula, where a wing’s base should have been.

“Then what a paradox we live, as I find myself just as bound as you. I apologize for my wanton behavior.” Aziraphale frowned at him. Fiery curls were tucked behind the shell of an ear. “I would say that I agree only if you allow me to return the favor, but your wings are beautiful perfection.”

Crowley still retained difficulty in accepting compliments; even from his angel. Rather than addressing it, he bounded to his feet, then drew Aziraphale carefully to his. He focused intently on undoing the buttons of the soft cardigan, and then those of the white shirt beneath. He could feel Aziraphale’s sudden tension; the set of his shoulders, and flex of his delicate jawline. “Angel, you gott’a tell me when something is bothering you.”

Anthony had adopted that tone that he reserved for certain moments. It was achingly tender and soft. An existence of repressing any troublesome emotions forced a smile to his lips, though it fell away under the disbelieving arch of a dark brow. His Creation was to be Anthony’s Destruction – yet as he stood, gazing up at orbs of molten gold, Aziraphale could only feel Blessed. “I’m a bit ashamed at the state of my wings, and I know it’s going to be a bit of a chore. It feels selfish when you already tend to so many of my needs.”

He had paused in dressing Aziraphale down when he had first sensed the unease. Knuckles swept reverently over the swell of an impossibly soft cheek. “Oh, angel. To be found worthy enough to touch such divine perfection… it truly is a blessing.”

Capturing the hand between both of his own, Aziraphale held it to his heart. How fortunate he was. “I love you, my glorious husband.” Their lips met, the kiss chaste as Anthony assisted him out of his cardigan and button-down. It was broken so that the soft undershirt could be drawn up, over his head.

A dramatic, flourishing snap returned the removed garments to their unnecessarily large walk-in closet, which was the approximate size of their cottage’s sitting room. The aforementioned snap also replaced the mess of their festivities, and centrally located furniture with a modified chaise lounge; it was a shade of blue so light in hue that it teetered on white, narrow enough that it could be comfortably straddled, and short in length to accommodate the small, rolling stool that Crowley manifested. Crowley helped Aziraphale get comfortable first, leaned forward against a moderately sloped and soft, padded side, which supported his front. Once he was settled, Crowley parked himself on the stool, and summoned a small, circular table, laden with his own personal grooming kit, and also mobile on wheels.

Aziraphale folded his arms on the padded, curved top of the chair. He tried to relax. The effort only stiffened him more. Anthony dragged a finger, or perhaps his knuckles, from the base of his skull, down the length of his spine until reaching the band of trousers. It was a tender caress, one that caused goosebumps prickling over his flesh. Lips touched maddeningly gentle to the nape of his neck, and expert hands manipulated the rigidity from his muscles. Aziraphale moaned gratefully into the fold of his arms.

Crowley had been unable to resist the expanse of exposed flesh presented before him. But then he felt the hard coiling of muscles, and he grew distracted. Time was inconsequential to them, and Crowley allowed himself to become sidetracked to thoroughly ease away the hard knots.

Aziraphale was awake, but scarcely so. A kiss to the back of his shoulder, and he stirred, smiling dreamily. Warmth suffused him as Anthony leaned into his back, nuzzling against his ear. A smattering of kisses elicited quiet giggles. Anthony’s voice was low against his ear, a deep timbre that resonated deep within his core. Though previously he had been embarrassed over the abhorrent state of his wings, Anthony had successfully reassured him. 

“_A’right, angel, le’s see your wings. _ ” Ethereal and beautiful, they seemed to descend from Heaven. They unfurled and stretched reflexively, as if shaking off a cramped storage. Even when in need of some grooming, they were still magnificent. Fingers trailed along sacred, white feathers, then just as worshipfully along the wing’s wrist. “_Fucking perfection, _” Crowley murmured to himself. 

Aziraphale could feel heat warm his cheeks, but his smile was pleased. Even though he was certain they were in deplorable shape, Anthony still managed to allay his discomfort. There was no lighthearted admonishment for his language. Without any flourish, Anthony set to work on the right wing first. His ministrations were patient and thorough; more so than Aziraphale typically was. While too relaxed to move, he was able to groan in grateful relief a handful of times. As he worked, Anthony murmured quietly, mostly unintelligibly to himself, though there were snatches of, ‘_ so beautiful’, ‘there’s a good feather, stay just so’. _How long had the music been absent? It didn’t matter, Aziraphale preferred listening to Anthony’s quiet diatribe as he worked. “Anthony?”

Crowley had risen from his stool, both hands invested in gingerly yet meticulously removing old feathers, mindful of any sensitive, immature pin feathers. Hyper-fixated on his task, Crowley was unaware of his mostly incoherent ramblings. _ “There you are, lay just so.” “Soft angel.” “Gonna do this more often.” _ Aziraphale’s quiet voice penetrated his intense focus, though it didn’t disturb it. “Yes, angel?”

“Are you aware that you talk to yourself when you concentrate, and how positively endearing it is?” His voice was a lazy drawl, thick with his contentment.

Crowley chewed at the inside of his lip. He continued to slide feathers from shaft to tip between the pads of thumb and forefinger, smoothing each lovingly. _ Endearing _ ? It gave him pause, with a defensive correction of, _ I’m a demon, and demons aren’t endearing. _ Crowley had to remind himself he was an angel. Should it not be an obvious distinction for him? “Your opinion is biased by love, which I’m not complaining about _ at all, _mind.”

“Be that as it may, I love watching and listening to you when you’re working on something. I wish I could have watched you create the cosmos.” The memory of their honeymoon danced across his vision behind closed lids.

_ The Bentley hung in open space behind them, as if it had been made to navigate amongst the stars. Anthony’s hand covered his eyes, at his own behest, and Aziraphale was guided on empty air. Anthony’s breath was a warm tickle against the shell of his ear, his voice a low velvet that tugged at his core. _

_ “Ready?” _

_ “Yes, my love. I’m quite eager to see it.” The hand lingered. With a mock ‘tut’ of exasperation, Aziraphale curled gentle fingers around Anthony’s wrist and eased his arm down. _

_ From the distance they had taken, Aziraphale was able to fully appreciate the majestic cosmic creation before them. For long moments, he could only gaze wonderingly at the nebula. Still gripping Anthony’s wrist, he drew the appendage up, clutching Anthony’s hand above his heart. “Oh, my dear. It’s absolutely incredible. You made this?” _

_ “Eeeh, I helped.” _

_ Reds and blacks bled with pale blue and amethyst; a kaleidoscope of colors that shimmered with stars glittering like jewels. He could feel Anthony relax carefully against his wings, slender fingers sliding between his own. Questions of Anthony’s Heavenly history threatened to fall from his tongue. He had asked once before, long ago, but Anthony had admittedly earnestly that he wasn’t ready to speak of it. Aziraphale knew how delicate the matter could be. Instead, he would sate his curiosity by having Anthony regale him of the history and composition of his creation. “Tell me about it?” _

_ When Anthony had grown quiet, Aziraphale turned in the embrace. The vibrant lights of the nebula sparkled in cherished, serpent eyes. Anthony looked so pleased; a parent looking proudly on at their child. How marvelous it could have been, to watch him create something so beautiful and powerful that it contained devastating destruction and existence within it. Beloved, handsome features blurred with tears that didn’t fall. Aziraphale was overwhelmingly grateful that Anthony had shared such an intimate part of himself with him. Warm palms suddenly cradled Aziraphale’s cheeks, and their mouths met far too briefly. “It’s exquisite. Thank you for sharing this with me.” _

_ “Anything for you. Come on, angel. Loads more to see.” _

_ Queen serenaded them as they drove through the cosmos – no less anxiety inducing than driving through Central London. _

A painful knot in Crowley’s chest, an ache of bittersweet memories that he shelved for later. Aziraphale’s needs first; _ always _. “Eeh, didn’t miss much.” He resumed his meticulous grooming. “But we can always go off in the stars again. There’s still so much I want to show you.”

Aziraphale sighed, wistfully. “We can take Oscar this time.”

Crowley grumbled unintelligibly for the sake of pretense. He couldn’t admit aloud how much he cared for, and respected the Behemoth, who had taken a beating to help protect his angel. A brush, bristles soft, was swept over plentiful covert feathers.

It could have been only a handful of hours or days, but both were too content for an intermission. Once Crowley was finally and completely satisfied with each and every individual feather, Aziraphale had long since been lulled to sleep. Crowley gathered him in his arms, the miracle from their sitting room, to their library, clothing Aziraphale not only in pajamas that were luxuriously soft, but also patterned in his own personal tartan. Crowley tenderly laid the angel to bed, mindful of wings that were a collective of individual feathers that seemed almost iridescent. As he withdrew, Aziraphale stirred, reaching out to him tiredly.

“_Anthony? Where are you going? _” Sleep muddled his thoughts, but he was alert enough to feel a flare of panic as Anthony withdrew.

Crowley claimed a hand, drawing it up, mouth finding the soft flesh of inner palm in the darkness. “Nowhere, angel. I’m never going anywhere. Was just getting ready for bed, s’all. I didn’t mean to wake you.” It was an apology. Moonlight fell upon Aziraphale, a luminous silver that glimmered on white wings stretched end to end of their bed. His angel pouted up at him; Crowley’s answering frown was dramatic and sympathizing. While he undressed leisurely; his gaze lifted to meet blue eyes. Naked, his new clothing a forgotten heap at his bare feet, Crowley returned to Aziraphale; as he would do for the rest of eternity. Clouds once more obscured the pale, ethereal glow. 

The bed dipped under Anthony’s weight. In six millennia, Aziraphale’s body had never felt so fluid and light. But there was a tranquility at the core of him, warm flashes of love and peace filling every nook of his body. Their hands joined, and Anthony came to him at last. Thighs parted invitingly, and his lean frame slid between them. Anthony had made him wait agonizingly long for this moment, but blessedly, it had been so worth it. He hadn’t felt so happy, nor had so much fun, in what felt like an eternity. As their revelry waned, Anthony had eased the tension from his muscles. And then still had also given meticulous love and care to his sorely neglected wings. “I’m glad you did.” He spoke scarcely louder than a whisper, Anthony’s mouth hovering maddeningly close above his own. Aziraphale resisted the temptation to lift his chin and seal their lips in a kiss. “I wonder what ever we should do to pass the time. Scrabble, perhaps?” His voice was quiet and playful in the darkness.

Crowley’s left hand bore most of his weight, placed above Aziraphale’s shoulder, mindful of wings. “Can I use Urban Dictionary?” Fingertips trailed down the side of his throat.

“Have you gone mad? It would be chaos.” Their lips met at last, though Aziraphale wasn’t uncertain who caved first. An arm draped around Anthony’s shoulders, his right hand molding to the side of his throat. Their kiss was unhurried, as if they had an eternity to indulge in a slow caress of tongues and lips. It was tender and loving, and filled Aziraphale with so much love he felt he would burst. He hadn’t realized that tears had fallen from beneath closed lids and dampened blonde curls until his mouth was woefully abandoned.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley’s question was quiet with concern, his expression a deep, furrowed frown. If he got worked up, it would do Aziraphale no good. He was finally getting a good look at him, at the familiar expression of tranquility, but the tears caused a flare of apprehension.

A hand that had wandered down a taut bicep, crept back up. Red curls were swept back from Anthony’s face, and he smiled affectionately up at him. “I was just a bit overcome with love, is all, and how unbelievably happy you make me.”

_ God, that smile. _It tugged at his very essence. Brows touched, and Crowley peered down into pale, blue eyes. He could easily get lost in the beautiful, expressive gaze. “I must be doing something right then.” Crowley straightened, drinking in his angel’s peaceful expression. Pink lips drew his attention, the slight part of them in anticipation of his own claiming them. Fingers trailed up his spine, plunging into red curls. He could no longer resist his tempting angel. Crowley sank against Aziraphale’s softness, mouths reuniting.

As his eyes closed, Aziraphale gave a small flutter of fingers. Luxuriously soft pajamas vanished, replaced with the feel of Anthony’s warm skin against his own. Anthony’s low laughter interrupted the kiss, head bowing to bury his face into the side of his throat. “Care to share what you find so amusing?” His response was an unintelligible murmur, _ ‘Myinsatiableangel’ _, his lips a maddeningly light caress against the side of his throat. “S-sorry, what was that?” Teeth captured his bottom lip, forcing back the moan that threatened to cut through the relative silence of their library.

It had taken six millennia for them to get here, yet still it seemed surreal. He withdrew to make his point, but was sidetracked by Aziraphale’s beauty. Pale cheeks were flushed pink with color, and blue eyes were heavy lidded with the expression that only he could pull off – utter contentment and desperate longing. “Ang—.” Plump thighs framed his hips, drawing him in. He could feel Aziraphale’s arousal pulse against his pelvis. “_You little minx. _”

Beneath both palms was the sharp angle of scapulas, nails scraping gently. “I beg your pardon.” The indignation was insincere. “I am your little angel.” A strong hand slid down the side of his thigh, sliding beneath to mold the limb to his side. There was an undeniable power in that grip, and it sent a thrill racing through his being. Wings shuddered with Aziraphale’s anticipation, breath catching in his chest.

“My apologies, must’ve lost m’head.” The deliciously plump thigh was given a firm, loving squeeze, before it was draped over his own legs. Crowley had risen onto his knees, freeing his hands to roam. Fingertips trailed reverently down the swell of his soft belly. Shifting his body allowed him to comfortably bend, lips worshipfully following the path fingers had taken.

Before even a hand had touched him, Anthony’s talented tongue licked up the length of him. Pillows tumbled to the floor as his wings flexed, his spine arching off the bed. His breath caught on a gasp. When fingers finally curled around his aching length, Aziraphale nearly lost control, scarcely able to refrain from succumbing to the urge of climaxing. When Anthony would typically withdraw, to allow Aziraphale a moment to collect himself, he seemed only to make his strokes more determined. The glide of his thumb over velvety tip was maddening, and tipped him over the edge. Fingers tangled in fiery curls, the grip harsher than what Aziraphale intended. He needed that anchor, Anthony’s reassuring presence in a time of vulnerability and intimacy. Pleasure tore through him in fierce, demanding waves, nearly consuming his entire being when lips curled around his sensitive head. Helplessly, Aziraphale writhed, finding his breath only for the desperate moan that fell from his lips.

Gold eyes never fell away from Aziraphale’s face, devouring the flurry of expressions that flitted over his features. He was perfect as he lost control. Crowley could sustain a future spent focusing only on Aziraphale, satisfaction easily found in bringing his angel pleasure. Each pulse of his climax was swallowed, tongue undulating and hand pumping. When Aziraphale finally relaxed back against the bed, Crowley sat up, allowing him a moment of reprieve. “Tell me what you want, angel.”

“I want—“ Knowing fingers curled around his still hard member, Anthony’s strokes unhurried. It stole his breath, and derailed his thoughts momentarily. “_Oh, _ that feels divine.” Blue eyes flicked up, peering beneath dark lashes. Even if he had been wearing his sunglasses, it wouldn’t have hidden the open expression of affection. It was familiar, and Aziraphale absently wondered how he could have been so oblivious for so long. _ Not oblivious – denial. _ Regret threatened to stir, but the pad of a slick finger traced over his entrance. His head fell back into the lone pillow that remained on their bed. “ _ Yesyes, that. _”

Crowley didn’t need to be told twice. His finger was gentle as it slid into Aziraphale’s warmth, miraculously slick with lubricant. Knuckles buried against plump cheeks as he pressed deeper, digit curling to find that secret, hidden spot. Aziraphale bucked involuntarily against his hand when he found it and whimpered against a delicate fist. _ My blushing maiden. How could you ever believe I’d let anything happen to you? _“Ready for another, angel?”

“Already?” Anthony’s laughter was a low rumble, and Aziraphale throbbed achingly against the tight fist. Above him, Anthony was cast in shadow. Through the tangles of red curls, luminous gold eyes stared down at him. The only thing missing were his magnificent wings. “You. I want you. With your wings.”

“What about one more and th—“

“With your wings?” His own fluttered against the bed, beckoning.

“Yes, my demanding little angel.” Gently, a second finger joined the first; stroking over sensitive nerves. Aziraphale grinded against his knuckles, and Crowley nearly embarrassed himself. The visual alone was quite nearly enough stimulation to finish him off. Wings unfurled from their Heavenly plane, stretching wide and shaking off cramped confinement. With his gaze trained on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley bowed his head, and took him into his mouth. Shudders stole through his angel’s body as Crowley buried the entire length of him down his throat.

Heels dug into the mattress, thighs quivering as he resisted his body’s compulsion to buck against the warm wetness that engulfed him. “_J-jolly good. _ ” Anthony’s strangled sound of indignation vibrated over sensitive nerves. Aziraphale was suddenly so close to release that he spasmed, abdominal muscles tightening, briefly crouching up before collapsing back. “_Anthony. _” His name was a plea. Aziraphale was so close that if he stopped, he was certain he would discorporate. The need was building inside of him, a demanding pressure. As if he knew of his plight, Anthony claimed his right hand. His left hand free, as Aziraphale was being stroked from base to tip with mouth and tongue.

Digits laced together, and Aziraphale clung to him as he found release once more. Plunging fingers and the constriction of his throat guided him through each crest of the orgasm, prolonging it, drawing it out until it ached. He knew when Aziraphale had become unbearably sensitive, nails digging into his skin. It was almost encouragement, the sting of normally manicured nails. Pride swelled inside of him. He was the reason that the angel lost control, and why he writhed in pleasure. Somehow, he had been found worthy enough to be with such divine perfection. At last, another moment of recovery was given. While Aziraphale caught his breath, Crowley crept up the length of his body, weight braced with on a hand positioned over Aziraphale’s left shoulder. After sweeping the mess of his hair back from his face, he leaned down. His breath was far less controlled than he preferred, panted quietly against the delicate lobe of his ear. “_I love you, angel. Thank you.” _

It was quite impressive and rather infuriating, that Anthony was so adept at maintaining his composure enough to converse. Aziraphale could hardly string together a cohesive sentence. “T-thank you?” Soft lips caressed sensitive skin, drawing a moan from his lips. Now that he was within reach, Aziraphale seized the moment to touch him. Muscles quivered as his left arm curled under Anthony’s, gripping his shoulder. Trembling fingers trailed down the exposed nape of Anthony’s neck, gliding downwards until he found the base of a wing. Above him, Anthony shuddered in response. With his wits regained, Aziraphale nuzzled his cheek against Anthony’s, stubble a gentle rasp against his own soft skin. “I believe I’m the one that’s meant to be thanking you, my dearest.”

With such gentle, marveling reverence, Aziraphale traced over the wrist of his wing. It was a familiar, loving caress. Whether ebon or white and gold, Aziraphale’s affection was unchanged. Through him, Crowley had found redemption. Aziraphale had loved him just as fiercely when he had been a demon, and loved him no differently now that he was an angel. He had always cared for Crowley’s individuality. Crowley found acceptance and family with the only being that truly represented what Heaven claimed to stand for; love, acceptance, and forgiveness. “I then beg that you thank me with a kiss.”

He could taste himself on Anthony’s tongue. Suddenly, aching need rippled through his core, a whimper breathed amidst the kiss. He could feel not only his own arousal, but also Anthony’s, trapped between their bellies. The kiss was broken, his voice quiet in the stillness. “Please, Anthony. I can wait no longer.” With an arm loose around his neck, Aziraphale’s mouth trailed down the sharp angle of his jaw. “_ Please, I need to feel you. _”

Teeth grit harshly, the groan that hummed in his throat closer to a growl. Seeking lips were reclaimed in a hungry kiss. An arm slipped between their bodies, miraculously slickened fingers gentle, slipping inside of him. Crowley drank Aziraphale’s moan. Thighs tightened demandingly against his hips, and he grinned against the kiss. “Patience, angel.” Crowley’s fingers were replaced with his slickened arousal, teasing around his entrance, before slowly slipping inside of him. Long hair curtained his face when his head dropped, brow resting against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

There was a satisfying fullness, bodies fit intimately close. Anthony began moving inside him, his thrusts determined, and angled to graze over hyper-sensitive nerves. Again, their mouths found each other, the kiss frantic. Fingers tangled into fiery curls, holding unruly strands back. White and gold wings flexed as narrow hips rolled. Fingertips glided from the base of a wing, following the ridge of spine. Anthony quivered above him, Aziraphale inhaling the low groan the touch elicited. Tongues caressed and tasted of one another, and Anthony’s thrusts grew more insistent. It shattered what tenuous control Aziraphale had. His head fell back, his throat arched. 

A supportive arm slipped between the mattress and Aziraphale’s back, his elbow holding his weight. His free hand slid between their bodies, curling around Aziraphale’s erection. It drew a delicate, breathy moan; music to Crowley’s ears. He wanted to hear it again. A shift of his hips earned a drag of nails down his bicep, and a sharp gasp. Blue eyes peered up at him through heavy lids, pink lips parted with his heavy breath. “_You are perfection. _”

Aziraphale blushed under the weight of Anthony’s loving gaze. “As are you, my love.” He was drawn back down for a kiss. Anthony continued his thrusting, his thumb stroking over the sensitive tip of his member. The urge to climax was growing unbearable, so close that his body sought release. Hips bucked, moving to meet downward thrusts. Anthony grunted against his lips. Aziraphale’s pleased smile was short lived, as a whimper was wrenched from deep within him. He no longer teetered on that impossible brink, but crashed over. Anthony’s name was a fervent, grateful prayer as he yielded to the building need for release. As his body spasmed and he moaned helplessly, Anthony held him. His heart swelled with love, and he fought against the tears that suddenly blurred his vision. Aziraphale hadn’t felt so happy and relieved in so long, and he owed it all to Anthony.

It was the wave of love that crashed over him that sent Crowley over the edge. He had an unspoken agenda – to do whatever necessary to ensure Aziraphale’s comfort and happiness. The intensity of his love for Aziraphale was returned, bathing him in a pure, radiant love that was too much. Aziraphale held him as he climaxed, his muscles trembling as if under great strain. When both were spent, Aziraphale swept his left wing out of the way, allowing Crowley to stretch out on his back. Before getting settled, the mess of their lovemaking was righted with a dismissive snap. Pillows returned to the bed, disheveled bed linens tucked over corners, and their bodies cleaned of sticky fluids. Aziraphale was tucked into his side, cheek nestling into blonde curls contentedly. The world couldn’t have been more perfect at that moment.

Two wings trailed over the edge of the bed, the other pair dominating a large portion of their bed. Blessedly, they didn’t need much space that night. It seemed as if they had just gotten comfortable, before both of them succumbed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.
> 
> And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.  
Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	32. The Reawakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.  
Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We thank you for reading!  


Crowley was the first to stir, the sun already hanging heavy in the sky outside the window behind their bed. Their library was quiet, and Crowley wondered, for the millionth time it seemed, if when he next awoke, it would be at his flat; alone. Aziraphale’s body was reassuringly warm and solid against him. Their position hadn't changed as they slept; Aziraphale lay curled naked against his side. His breath was slow and even, face buried into the side of Crowley's neck. Tightening his right arm protectively around his angel, Crowley held him more securely. The sheets and duvet were tangled between their legs, and draped over Aziraphale and his pelvis, providing a modicum of modesty for his prim angel. Oscar was a warm ball of fur curled against his left hip.

A hand reached under their nest of pillows, finding only broken sunglasses. When did he last have his phone? The sound of the fragile device shattering on Heavenly white tiles was his reminder. Crowley groaned. Aziraphale nuzzled deeper into the side of his throat. As loathe as he was to untangle himself from his angel’s soft form, he wanted to put the kettle on for Aziraphale, make himself an espresso, and catch up on the Earthly news. As the planets guardians, Crowley supposed they should have knowledge of the going-ons.

“A’right, mutt. Up you get.” His voice was quiet, so as not to further disturb Aziraphale. Oscar vacated the bed, with a canine sound of disapproval. Crowley brushed a soft kiss against Aziraphale’s temple, then slowly and carefully untangled himself. Sheets twisted around his lower body sent him toppling over the edge of the bed with a grunt. Popping up, he cast a glance at Aziraphale, who now clung to the pillow he vacated, still asleep. “Almost cocked that up.” He padded across the library floor, and when he emerged from one book-lined aisle, he had miraculously donned his robe and lamb-wool lined, black leather slippers. Long hair that had been mussed from sex and sleep was no longer disheveled, and was pulled free from the collar of black silk.

Oscar beat him to the kitchen, the door to their garden left open. He crossed to the entryway. “When are you going to learn to close the damnable door behind you, beast?” Oscar ignored him, deciding instead to race through a flock of birds, which fearfully took flight. “You’ll get them next time.” The door slammed closed behind Crowley with a gentle kick of his foot.

In the silence, Crowley hummed Tchaikovsky off-tune. Water filled the kettle. He flicked the knob on the stovetop, and placed the kettle on the back burner to warm. The day felt full of promise. Perhaps Aziraphale would be willing to get lunch. The espresso machine whirled to life with a snap directed at the appliance. With nothing but time to kill, Crowley sauntered into the sitting room. It was as they had left it after their party, which was already a fond recollection. He’d cherish that moment they were given. The room was returned to its former state with a snap.

Crossing to a small, unobtrusive side table, Crowley knelt before it. The top drawer rattled as he pulled it open, iPhones sliding with the momentum. He had found it increasingly more difficult to keep his phone intact. The solution had been easy enough. Doing as he had done with his sunglasses, Crowley designated a drawer for replacements. Palming the device, the drawer was closed, and he rose.

The door to the garden was open when he returned to the kitchen, yet he hadn’t heard the click of nails on tile. The phone was powered on as he crossed the short distance to the backdoor. Oscar sat in the middle of the pathway, tongue lolling, and tail wagging. “Play time later, mate, yeah?” Oscar barked sharply. “Rude_ . _” The door was kicked closed again.

“Music, music…” Crowley mumbled, but before he could even open his playlist, missed notifications populated. Several were for YouTube and the BBC. There was one text from the witch’s husband -- who had only been programmed in so Crowley would know who he was ignoring. It read only, “999”.

Crowley leaned back against the counter, legs crossed at the ankles. Two missed calls with voicemail populated. Trepidation filled him. He most decidedly did not want to play the message. Not when, selfishly, things were on the up and up.

He played the first message.

Newt’s nervous voice stammered from the speaker. “Crowley… or, er, Aziraphale? N-not sure who I should ask for…” Sniffling, and a quaking breath. “There was… ah, an-an accident…” His voice broke. “Anathema was hit… a-a-and _ our baby _… E-Elfie is fine, she was at home.” He was quiet for a moment, and when Newton spoke again, his voice was thick with tears. “Would… you two please come to hospital? Ah, th-thank you. Goodbye.”

Crowley stared at the phone, horrified. There was an imperceptible tremble to his hand when his thumb swept over the screen, looking for when the message was received. “Shit.” The damned timestamps read when he had turned the bloody phone on. His jaw grit, and powerlessly, Crowley played the next message.

Newton sounded tired. “They’re taking her into surgery now – for the baby, but Anathema, she—“

An unfamiliar, masculine voice. “Mr. Pulsifer? Transport is here to take her.”

Newt sighed, defeated. “I… better go… I just—“

“Mr. Pulsifer?”

The message ended. In the deafening silence, he heard the sharp intake of breath. Crowley’s head jerked up. Aziraphale stood in the entryway to the kitchen, his face drained of color. Tears had already begun to fall. How much had he heard, and why hadn’t Crowley taken the bloody thing off speaker?

It was hard to hear Anthony’s voice over the sound of his thundering pulse. A hand braced against the doorframe, his knees suddenly weak. _ If they die, their blood will be on my hands. _A warm hand cupped his bicep, and knuckles tipped his chin up. Aziraphale raked his gaze over features he knew better than his own. There was a tightness at the corner of his mouth, and a tic of muscle at his jaw. Gold eyes said more than Anthony verbalized, pleading that Aziraphale not fall apart. Not yet. Not until they had saved their friends.

“I’m sure everything’s fine, angel.” Crowley didn’t sound very convincing to his own ears, but it was difficult enough hiding how truly troubled he was. “We’ll just—we’ll go to hospital… Let’s get dressed…“ Something flickered just within those captivating blue eyes. Resolve. The angel that had put his own personal affairs aside to help save the world stood before him. He knew that it hadn’t been easy. Crowley could have kissed him, he was so proud.

A fluid movement of his arm before him, drawn up, then down again, replaced his plush robe with his usual attire. Being of an ethereal nature, magic was convenient in moments when there was no time to shower, dress, and then find transportation to the emergency. _ I can do this. _ Anthony followed suit – a snap accompanied the dramatic flourish of right arm, garbing him in black with a peek of red at the collar of his coat. Long hair was swept back with an elastic band. _ Anthony is with me. I can do this. _

He opened his coat, right hand reaching inside. Aziraphale abruptly grabbed his left wrist. They manifested in the same hospital Anathema had given birth the first time. A nurse shrieked in surprise when she rammed an empty wheelchair into his calf, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Bloody hell! Little warning next time?” His voice held a sharper tone than intended. Aziraphale didn’t seem to have heard him, as he had already hurried off. That left him to deal with a human that had seen two men appear from nowhere. Crowley groaned in frustration.

“Yes, hello. I need to know what room Anathema Device-Pulsifer is in.” His voice was thin, scarcely containing the panic; a looming, inky blackness. Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back, his grip achingly tight. _ Be strong. _

Beverly looked up from her romance novel, peering over the top of her reading glasses. The man before her was clearly on edge, a commonality amongst most of those she helped. Hospitals weren’t typically known for happy occasions. But for her, it was a second home. She had been in her current position three months after she had retired from the ICU fifteen years ago. It got her out of the house and gave her a purpose. “What’s your relation, luv?”

“My relation? He’s just there.” Aziraphale waved a hand vaguely behind him. “I must insist that you please hurry, it is a dreadful emergency. Anathema Device-Pulsifer, please.”

Beverly frowned, then peered around the man to his partner, who was talking inaudibly with Kyla. She returned her attention to the confused gentleman. “No, dear. Are you the patient’s father, uncle, brother…?”

“We are none of those. Madame. I demand that you stop with these asinine questions, and tell me her room number!” Aziraphale couldn’t prevent the rise of his voice. Though it was stern, it was tinged with a slight trill of near hysteria. “It is there!” He pointed an emphatic finger at the offending object. “On your modern computer! Her name is Anathema Device-Pulsifer, I implore that you look!”

While he shouted, Beverly replaced her bookmark. She calmly laid her book beside the keyboard. Her arthritis wasn’t bad enough yet that it prevented her from manipulating the mouse and typing. He had fallen silent, but Beverly took a moment to unhurriedly smooth the wrinkles from her jumper. After folding her hands in her lap, she finally gave him her attention. “Are you quite finished? I am more than willing to help you, but you can just march right out that door and come back when you believe you can treat me with the respect I deserve, young man.”

Aziraphale scowled at the infuriating woman. He took a moment, eyes closing. Desperately, he attempted to find his patience amongst the frustration that was quickly turning into anger. He hadn’t felt this strong of an impulse to smite a human since his last days at the Bookshop. 

As Crowley sauntered up to Aziraphale’s side, he reached into his coat pocket out of habit, and withdrew his sunglasses. They were a shield from the world, hiding emotions that may be difficult to suppress. Crowley draped himself over the counter, and rested his chin on his fist. He wasn’t certain what he had missed or why it was taking so long, since he had been the one to coerce wheelchair girl into believing she had bumped into a wall. Crowley tipped his head, and smiled flirtatiously. “_Hello, _ Aziraphale.” It drew a sharp look from his angel, allowing the human a moment’s reprieve from Aziraphale’s misplaced anger. “What seems to be the problem, angel?” His voice was calm, placating. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him; a severe look. Crowley frowned back. He was well aware of how dire the situation was, but he needed Aziraphale to try to collect himself.

His gaze swept over features he knew even when they were separated for centuries, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. Left hand slipped within Anthony’s right, fingers lacing together. The appendage was warm and reassuring, and Aziraphale softened at last. He turned to the woman who sat patiently waiting. _ I can do this. _“I apologize for my impertinent behavior. My name is Aziraphale, and this is my husband, Anthony. We are, I suppose you could say, guardian angels for our dear friend. Well, actually, that’s not precisely accurate. We’re guardians of Earth---“

Crowley interjected a hasty correction. “Just our niece, guardian nothing, _ angel_.” The human looked suspiciously between them. Crowley grimaced in an attempt of a reassuring smile.

Aziraphale continued. “Yes, our… niece – Anathema Device-Pulsifer.”

Beverly shifted her attention from the blonde to the redhead. Life experience, and working with patients that teetered too closely to the brink of death, had cultivated her ability to listen to primal intuition. It had helped many times when a patient was not responding to a treatment that should be correcting the underlying cause of their illness. Though clearly she wasn’t given the truth, Beverly listened to her instincts. She stared at the peculiar blonde for the beat of a moment longer. “If I find out the two of you are up to no good with this girl, I will personally escort the two of you out of here by your ears.” A stern look between the two of them, the blonde nodding in emphatic agreement. His husband arched an eyebrow over his glasses at her. Beverly finally relented, and turned to the computer. “How do you spell her name?”

“How do you—how –“ From agreeable, to flustered in a matter of moments. “Exactly as it sounds, you daft woman!”

“Aziraphale, you can’t apologize and then insult the woman! That’s my job, minus the apology. You’re meant to be the nice one.” Shaking his head, Crowley turned back to the human. “Listen, Golden Girl. My husband is upset because we received a disturbing voicemail from Anathema’s husband. She’s here and she is with child. So I ask on our behalf, please provide us with her room number. Anathema – A-n-a-t-h-e-m-a. Device—D-e-v-i-c-e. Pulsifer – P-u-l-s-i-f-e-r.”

Beverly typed the name into the lookup system, as it was spelled out. The room number populated on the face sheet of the woman in question. “Room number 611. That will be –“ She didn’t get to finish. One moment they stood before her, a blink, and then they were gone. Beverly sat back in her chair, then looked around, to confirm that she wasn’t the only one to witness the event. No one else seemed to have noticed. Beverly shrugged dismissively, and returned to her book. Dealing with death had come with its own set of peculiarities. Two men disappearing didn’t come close to the top five weirdest things she had witnessed in her 85 years of life.

Newton sat in a small, uncomfortable chair beside the empty bed. He could hear the beeping of distant machines in other patient rooms, and the chatter of nurses as they completed their documentation, placed calls, and the various other tasks he had heard his mum mention whenever she had completed her shift at hospital. She had attempted unsuccessfully to coerce him to wait for updates on Anathema and the baby in the waiting room. Their compromise had been that his mum would call his cell whenever she had heard any news. _ I would only get in the way, anyhow… _

Fingers shoved through his disheveled hair, and he tore his glasses off, flinging them across the room. Wrapping his arms around his body, in the solitude of Anathema’s hospital room, Newt allowed himself to succumb to his overwhelming grief. His sob was a wretched sound that he tried to stifle with a palm clapped to his mouth.

“Please God, I’ve never asked for anything… p-please don’t take them.” The back of his right hand swiped over his eyes, though it didn’t prevent the deluge of tears. “Elfie needs her mummy a-a-and her little brother… _ please_.”

The unobtrusively quiet radio at the nurse’s station screeched ear splittingly loud with feedback. Delicate, quiet chimes filled the silence that followed. The glass door slid closed, and Newton jerked his head up. Suddenly, there was Aziraphale and Crowley, standing at the foot of the empty bed.

“I don’t understand, wher—“ Aziraphale was cut off, Newton’s sudden rising drawing his attention when the chair clattered to the floor.

“Oh, my dear Lord. You’re here—both of you.” Newton’s relief was temporary. “You must hurry. They’re… they’re both in surgery.” The distance between him and the two supernatural beings was closed without conscious thought. “Please…” The tears were flooding again. He hadn’t heard from his mum. The endless possibilities of _ what if _raced through his mind, and he wiped the back of a trembling wrist over eyes that had begun filling with tears again.

Aziraphale took the boy’s free hand, cradled between both of his own. “We’re here now.” His own troubles faded away, and he devoted his complete attention to Newton. “Come now, dear boy. Have a seat. There you are.”

Newt complied. Though, when he sat, the chair seemed sturdier, and more comfortable. A hand laid gentle against his brow. His eyes fell closed under the calming warmth that radiated from the touch. Racing thoughts subsided. Spreading rays of what Heavenly sunshine must have felt like filled him. Elfie’s squeals echoed in his ears, as if she were in the same room with him. Anathema’s quiet, playful roar and subsequent laughter seemed just as real.

“Be at ease, Newton.” When Aziraphale withdrew his hand, the boy was asleep. His purpose. It, too, had been taken from him with Anthony’s destruction. But Aziraphale had found it. He was a being of love, and it compelled him to help those in need. When he straightened, Aziraphale drew his shoulders back, and lifted his chin. He turned to Anthony, his voice surprisingly calm. “Would you be a dear and stop time, please? I’m quite afraid we’re running out of it, my love.”

With his arms folded over his chest, Crowley watched his angel bring peace to the witch’s husband. His heart was overflowing with love for him. Aziraphale had always excelled in moments like these. It felt like a lifetime since he had seen Aziraphale so confident. Crowley had almost forgotten how serene the angel became when he blessed the humans. When Aziraphale turned to him, heavenly strength radiated from him. “Can I stop time?” Crowley parroted the question, which awarded him a frown. There was an ethereal, warm glow that radiated from Aziraphale, and Crowley had been rightfully distracted by the beauty of his divine love. “Er—yeah, sure. ‘Course I can stop time.” He unfolded his arms and flung them dramatically, accompanied with a resounding snap of fingers.

Aziraphale frowned in concern at Anthony as he rambled, straightening the collar, then lapels of his coat. “Thank you, my dearest. Where do you believe the surgical suites are?” Anthony held an arm out for him. Aziraphale curled his hand loosely around the appendage, left hand resting lightly on his bicep.

“I have an idea where. Hold on.” He laid a protective palm over the hand that laid so delicately against his arm. Crowley followed the faint hum of concentrated energy that allowed him to hone in on the presence of other supernatural entities, the Antichrist being the only exception thus far.

They manifested in a large room. It would have been blindingly white and sterile if not for the pool of blood that not only spilled from Anathema’s incision, but from the numerous injuries she had sustained from her accident, and the many puncture marks from failed intravenous access attempts. With time frozen, crimson droplets hung in midair. The room should have felt enormous, but it was filled with medical professionals for not only Anathema, but also the baby.

A group of humans swathed in blue, was clustered around a large machine. Aziraphale’s gaze was drawn to the shadow that loomed in the corner. A quiet, sharply inhaled breath as his hand tightened on Anthony’s arm. _ No. _“Are we too late?”

Death spoke, though he had no mouth or vocal cords. The sound issued from him, filling the heavy silence. “ONE CANNOT DIE WHEN TIME IS RENDERED IMPOTENT.”

Aziraphale glanced from Anthony, to the clustered humans off at the side, and finally, rested upon Anathema. When he turned back to Anthony, he laid a hand above his heart. “Will you tend to the little one?” Though time was no longer an imminent threat, Aziraphale cast an uncertain, worried glance at Death. A gentle nudge of fingers to the underside of his chin returned his gaze to reflective lenses. He wished he was staring into gold eyes instead of his own worried blue ones.

“Don’t you fret about him, angel.” His thumb stroked over the soft swell of his right cheek. Tempting lips were claimed in a brief kiss. “Go, tend to our witch. I’ll look after the wee bairn.”

Aziraphale wanted to linger, but now wasn’t the time for intimacy. Carefully, he slipped between humans that were in mid-bustle. Though he valued his antiquated clothing, old Oxfords stepped into the unavoidable lake of blood. He peered over the shoulder of a woman who appeared to have been attempting to suction the blood, but had been overcome by the hemorrhage.

A man was in the process of hanging bags of fluid onto a metal pole. Aziraphale took mind not to bump into the equipment as he drew closer to Anathema’s side. Unable to help himself, he drew the thin gown up her shoulder, affording her a small amount of privacy in this moment of vulnerability. He wanted to weep for her. Gentle fingertips swept dark curls back from her bruised and lacerated brow, healing the wound beneath his touch. If it weren’t for Crowley’s loud voice, the room would have been deafeningly silent.

Crowley stared down at the infant, so defenseless and innocent. He was an unhealthy shade of blue. Rather than dwell on the possibility that they were quite nearly too late, Crowley filled the silence. If he talked louder than his thoughts, that would surely drown them out. “Angel, what do you suppose they’re going to name him? Can I… _ encourage _ them to give the kid a normal name?” Aziraphale didn’t answer. He hadn’t expected him to.

His hand seemed impossibly large when he laid it against such a small chest. His brows drew together, and Crowley closed his eyes as he suffused the little human with his miraculously healing touch. “Hey dude, sorry ‘bout the bit of stopping the whole… End of the World thing.” There was no response from the corner. Challenge accepted. “Life’s working out really fucking fantastic for me, though, ever since. I got to marry my angel. Pretty rude of you to not show up when I died.” Aziraphale was murmuring beneath his breath. The newborn beneath his hand would be perfectly fine once time resumed. While he waited for Aziraphale to finish, Crowley ambled amongst the humans. Now that they were putting out the fire, there would be no emergency. Unable to help himself, Crowley absently withdrew the four pens that one scrubbed man had in his top pocket. Before slipping them into a pocket on the outside of his left leg, Crowley unscrewed them to remove the ink cartridges. “How’s the death business been going? Is this a busy time of year for you?”

Aziraphale swept the back of his knuckles over eyes that were bruised, the right split from brow to the bridge of her nose. It was a deep laceration that would have scarred had she survived. Guilt and shame swept him up, and his silent tears joined spilled blood. “_I’m so sorry, Anathema. _ ” She wouldn’t have needlessly suffered if he hadn’t been so consumed with his own pity. Even though they had made it in time, under Anthony’s miracle, she was too convincing of a corpse. “_I won’t fail you again. _”

His hand was ever so careful as he cupped the side of her features, and bowed over her. Aziraphale pressed a firm, promising kiss to her brow. He could feel the tingle of his blessing as it slipped from his lips and spread through Anathema like wildfire. He stood to assess her. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I got a bit carried away.”

Crowley had felt the miracle like a summer’s breeze, and his head fell back. The electric tingle of magic danced over his skin, sending shivers racing down his spine. It took a moment for Crowley to collect himself. Aziraphale’s voice finally penetrated through the haze. A shake of his head, dispelling the lingering remnants of distraction.

When he opened his eyes, Crowley crammed his fingers into the tight pockets of his pants, and rocked back on his heels with a whistle. Medical instruments that had been attached to Anathema had fallen to a floor that was white and sterile in the absence of blood. Where there had once been an open surgical incision, was now likely unblemished skin, no indications that her insides had been exposed to the world. Modesty had been provided with an ivory lace, tea-length dress and matching, ivory lace slippers. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I got carried away again.”

“DO NOT MAKE THIS A HABIT.” Death burst into a plume of inky black smoke, which then collapsed in on itself.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, who now faced him. He looked anxious, his hands wringing before him. Closing the short distance between them, Crowley took the restless appendages within his own, and held them to his chest. “You’ve done a perfectly remarkable job. Easy solution. When I start time, the humans are probably going to panic. Let me handle them. Anathema is likely going to be confused and scared, but you both need to get her kid.” Blue eyes still looked worriedly up at him. Crowley brought Aziraphale’s arms up, and pressed a kiss to the edge of knuckles on each hand. “I love you, and I am _ so _ proud of you, angel.”

Aziraphale drew in a trembling breath, and took one last look at Anthony’s reassuring expression. _ I can do this. _

“Are you ready?”

Aziraphale attempted a smile that felt closer to a grimace. He drew his shoulders back, and lifted his chin to adopt an air of confidence. “Oh, one moment!” Aziraphale hurried from Anathema’s side, and instead stood where Anthony had when he had healed the baby. “Please proceed.” Anthony’s resounding snap echoed in the room. For a moment, there was silence as the humans looked around, dumbfounded. Not even the baby made a sound. Aziraphale slipped a supportive arm along the length of the babe’s body, his other gently cupping the back of his delicate skull. When Aziraphale drew him into the cradle of his arm, the newborn was clean and swathed in a dressing gown that matched his mother’s, and a soft, ivory blanket. A hand suddenly clamped on his bicep, and Aziraphale jerked his gaze up indignantly. “I beg your pardon.”

“What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

The human that gripped his arm was a petite woman, but she looked quite ready to strike him. Before Aziraphale could respond, Anthony’s loud voice drew their attention.

“Oi!” Crowley glowered at the girl that had grabbed his angel, then tracked Aziraphale’s movement across the room as he returned to Anathema’s side. “Surgical humans,” he gazed over the faces that had turned expectantly to him. Crowley flashed a toothy, sardonic grin. “Here’s how the rest of this is going to go... whotever it is that your lot _ does… _ see to it that it gets done. Your surgery was successful. You saved the patient. Well done. A medical miracle. All of your… _ whotever_, needs to reflect that. In an hour, her, and her family, will be leaving. Ensure that everything that needs to be completed for Anathema and her baby, _ is_. The lot of you won’t like it if I have to come back.”

Her eyes opened, and she stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. The table beneath her was cold and unyielding. Chaos suddenly erupted around Anathema. When she sat up, her hands immediately fell to her stomach, flat and absent of her baby. Panic and fear suddenly filled her. _ Where’s our baby? _ An obnoxiously loud voice filled her ears, only further disorienting her. But then suddenly Aziraphale stepped into her field of view, squatting before her. In his arms he held a small bundle, which he carefully shifted into her arms.

“I know you must be confused and have many questions…”

The angel’s voice faded, her vision narrowing on the sweet face that stared up at her. “_ Oh, _ you look so much like your sister.” Now that her fear had been alleviated, Anathema was able to collect herself.

When she finally returned her attention to him, the heart wrenching terror had subsided. It, instead, was replaced with a mild irritation, as if the situation they were in were quite conventional, if not annoyingly inconvenient. Humans could be surprisingly resilient. “He is quite beautiful.” Aziraphale stood, and adjusted his clothing. “Once Anthony is finished, we will get both of you to Newton. He should be the one to tell you what happened.”

Tearing his attention from mother and child, Aziraphale’s gaze was immediately drawn to Anthony. For the first time, they could celebrate one of their wins openly together. With his heart bursting with love, he cut through the humans. Anthony deftly caught him, when he threw his arms around Anthony’s neck, and silenced him mid-speech with a firm kiss.

Crowley watched Aziraphale approach as he concluded his instructions to the humans. “Whot are you waiting for? An invitation? Go the fu—.” Aziraphale was suddenly enfolded in his embrace. Unabashedly, their mouths reunited as the medical staff hurried to obey the directive they had been given.

Anathema slipped through the chaos, and stood next to the duo. She waited a moment. When it became apparent that there may be no end in sight, she decided to interject. “Hey guys. It’s nice seeing you both again. As much as I’d love to sit and wait for you to finish kissing, I’d really like to talk to Newt and feed my son.”

Aziraphale sighed regretfully against his lips, and began to pull away. Crowley stole one last brief kiss, before they both turned to Anathema. He slung his right arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Whot ridiculous nonsense are you planning to call this one?”

She glared at Crowley. “Didn’t you name yourself?”

Crowley arched a brow at her. “Whot’s your point?”

Anathema smiled down at her little one. After nine months, she was finally able to hold him, and kiss him. Her mouth was light against his remarkably soft brow. “Janthony?” Her voice rose slightly in octave. “Yes, your Uncle Crowley got to pick his own name and still voluntarily chose Janthony.” He cooed up at her. She wanted to find Newt, to finally introduce him to his son, Maverick Terrance Device-Pulsifer.

Crowley scowled at Anathema. _ Wait. Uncle? _ It caught him off guard. It seemed that now that he had Aziraphale, their family was continually expanding. _Fuck. _For a moment, his throat grew tight with emotion. Despite the grief he gave Anathema, he had grown fond of her. Not only her, but the small group of survivors that had come together in Tadfield to save the world. It was going to be hard to watch them age and die, but that was the nature of things. Dying in a motor crash wasn’t. After clearing his throat, Crowley conceded. “Point taken, witch. Hold on.” With his left arm already secured around Aziraphale’s shoulders, he placed a light hand on the curve of her shoulder.

As if two supernatural entities transporting her around was common, Anathema was unfazed when they materialized in a hospital room. It was quiet, Newt politely taking up as little space as he could, even as he slept. He looked frustratingly endearing. Crossing the room, she knelt at his side and placed a light hand on his knee. “Cuddle bear, wake up.”

Crowley leaned into Aziraphale, his mouth brushing against his ear. His voice was loud enough only for his angel.“_ Terrible namer. He’s not even a bear._”

Aziraphale gently elbowed Anthony in the ribs. Anthony grunted quietly, playfully. “Hush, you incorrigible farceur.”

Anathema’s gentle voice drew him from sleep’s sweet embrace. It took a moment for his mind to reboot. Newt almost wished it hadn’t. The memory of Anathema’s broken, and battered body; the alarmingly slow heart rate of their baby – it was not something he wanted to retain. But here she was, ethereally beautiful with dark curls spilling over her shoulders, and garbed in a delicate, pale dress. It was unbelievable that she was alive and intact before him. Sitting forward, Newt cradled her face in his hands, and leaned down to press his mouth to hers. Relief flooded him when he felt her mouth curve into a smile beneath his own. _ Aziraphale and Crowley did it. _

The unexpected fussing between them broke the kiss, and they both looked down, brows resting gently together. “Is that him, then?” The back of his knuckles slid gently down the soft swell of a full cheek. “He’s beautiful, and he looks so much like his mum.” Newton smiled when his head turned towards the caress. “Oh, how terribly rude of me. He must be hungry. And after everything you’ve been through, you shouldn’t be down there. Germs and all that. He shouldn’t be here. What if he gets sick?” As he assisted Anathema to her feet, and settled on the edge of the bed, Newt rambled.

Anathema could feel warmth rise to her cheeks, flustering her with his sweetness. With his assistance, she rose, and settled on the hospital bed. “Newt, I’m fairly certain that germs are the least of our concerns.” She cast a thankful glance over her shoulder at Aziraphale and Crowley; receiving an affectionate smile from one, and a sneer from the other. Turning back to her husband, he marveled at them. A tug to his left hand drew him down beside her. “Now why don’t you tell me what happened, while I feed –“

There was a knock on the glass door, which slid open. Anathema tried unsuccessfully to hide her ire. “What?”

Crowley turned to the door, and the woman that hesitantly opened it. He glared at the hospital human. “Whot?” The woman glanced nervously from Anathema, to him.

“Er— congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Pulsifer. I-I have paperwork for you to complete... prior to your discharge…”

Anathema turned to Newt. “Write legibly this time, please. It was a pain in the ass changing Elfie’s birth certificate because they couldn’t read your chicken scratch.”

Newton frowned up at the woman who had approached, and held the clipboard and pen out to him. Beside him, Anathema used the blanket that swaddled their son to provide privacy as she adjusted the dress to breastfeed. He had almost completed the last page, when he suddenly glanced up, and asked, “Didn’t you fill out the forms last time?”

The tick of a clock filled the oppressive silence. Anathema and Newton were upstairs, leaving them alone with his mother. Aziraphale was settled into his right side, his hand light on leather-clad thigh. They had been left alone with Newt’s mother, who was doing her best not to stare.

“Would either of you like cuppa tea?” The circulating nurse had been the one to tell her of the good news; that the surgery had been successful, and Anathema and the baby were doing well. When she had attempted to call Newt, to talk to him, there had been no answer. She bumped into a nurse on her way out of room 611. Inside, she found an impossibly healthy daughter-in-law and grandson.

“No, thank you. We just wanted to ensure that Anathema and Newton made it home safely. We really shouldn’t dawdle.” Aziraphale made every effort to not look at the window that overlooked the front lawn.

_ An ear-splitting shriek of metal. Elfie’s terrified scream. _

His pulse fluttered at the side of his throat, his collar suddenly too tight. Aziraphale’s grip tightened imperceptibly on Anthony’s thighs as he resisted the urge to loosen his bowtie.

“How about something to eat, then?” Marie was trying to avoid the whole matter of the two being angels. She failed. “Do angels eat?”

Her voice was muffled, and then drowned completely by Anthony’s war cry. Aziraphale struggled to utilize the helpful techniques Anthony had taught him, but was unsuccessful. Abruptly, he rose. “Forgive my-my poor manners… It was a pleasure to meet you but I… I need a bit of fresh air.”

Crowley was only a step behind the angel’s retreat. The door opened for Aziraphale with a delicate gesture of his wrist, and he hurried down the walkway to the gate. It, too, opened miraculously. _ Shit. Should have told him to go home. _Aziraphale came to an abrupt halt – Crowley nearly colliding into his back.

He looked around, a bit frantically. He could no longer be certain of the exact spot of Anthony’s destruction. The scorched mark was gone, and Aziraphale was left to feel as if he had lost grip of reality. But the grief he felt was real, the memories vivid when they played behind closed eyes. He could still feel the bite of gravel beneath his knees, and the heat of Infernal fire.

Tears fell from behind closed lids, but they were swept away with a gentle caress. When he opened his eyes, Anthony stood before him. A tentative hand rested against his chest, as if he had every expectation that he would fracture beneath the touch. But he was solid, and real, and suddenly pulled him into his embrace. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his middle, and buried his face into the side of his neck. “I feel like I am losing my mind, Anthony.”

Behind dark lenses, Crowley closed his eyes. A cheek rested against pale, fluffy curls, and a hand stroked the length of Aziraphale’s back. “Of course you aren’t, angel.” He could relate to the sentiment. The overwhelming hopelessness he had felt as he tried, desperately, to find Aziraphale in his burning Bookshop, and knowing in his heart that he was too late. Yet the day of their trials, he had returned only to find it intact; not a smudge, nor book burned. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His laughter was mirthless. “Have I not discussed it at such great length that you’re tired of hearing it?” Aziraphale had been able to collect himself in the security of Anthony’s embrace. Now he withdrew, and adjusted first his waistcoat, then his bowtie.

“For you, I would listen to the same story for the rest of eternity.”

“Do you… that is to say, would you mind walking me through your perspective once more?” The gold chain of his pocket watch tinkled much more merrily than his somber tone.

“I…” _ Shit. _Would it be beneficial, or only cause Aziraphale more pain? Blue eyes remained averted. “Of course I will, angel.” The elastic band that bound his hair was pulled free, and slipped over his right wrist. He was trying to buy time as his fingers combed through red curls. “So, er—“ Crowley cleared his throat, and tried again. He hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to talk about, since he had done so before. “Right, so, Gabriel…” He faltered again. Though he had been able to save Aziraphale one last time, and knew he could do so again, Crowley was having difficulty vocalizing what had transpired.

“Anthony, forgive me. You don’t hav—“ Even through dark glasses, Aziraphale could feel the heat of his glare. He fell silent, and instead watched as his husband paced. “Honestly, I—“

“Dammit, Aziraphale, give me a moment.” _ Get your shit together. _Absently, he popped the band on his wrist, prowling restlessly. “I told you already, that Gabriel, that motherfucker, stabbed you?” Aziraphale nodded. “Right.” He shoved his fingers into his pockets. “And that I couldn’t get to you in time?” Crowley turned mid-pace, to see Aziraphale nod once more. “It was the second time I had lost you, the second time I had failed you.”

Aziraphale winced, regret and guilt filling him. “Anthony, you must know that you’ve never failed me.” He looked unconvinced, and Aziraphale softened. He crossed the distance to him. “May I?” A hand rose tentatively. When Anthony gave a brief nod, dark glasses were gently removed, folded, and placed into a pocket in his own coat. Gold eyes looked terribly vulnerable. “I was the idiot that stepped into the transportation portal without prior preparation.”

Anthony frowned at him. He returned the expression. “I was being selfish when I asked. I hadn’t considered how you must have felt, if I… _ when _ I initially suffered the same fate as you.” He looked as if he meant to interrupt. Aziraphale pressed his fingertips lightly against parted lips. “And the pub… twice you have lost me, and I have been very self-absorbed.” His hand returned to Anthony’s mouth, silencing his interjection. “No, hush. Let me say this. You have been phenomenally patient and attentive. And I hope you know how grateful I am to have you in my life. Thank you, Anthony. For everything. I love you.”

_ Don’t cry. _ Crowley bit his lip, and dropped his gaze. His throat was suddenly tight with emotion. Logically, he knew Aziraphale appreciated his efforts. But it was a reassurance that Crowley didn’t know he needed, that his efforts weren’t all for naught, that he wasn’t failing Aziraphale… that he was enough. Aziraphale drew him into his soft embrace, and Crowley sank against him. “_Goddammit, angel. M’not s’pposed to cry. _”

Aziraphale tucked red curls behind the shell of an ear, fingertips following along the exposed skin above the collar of his shirt. Goosebumps prickled beneath his touch. “You’re allowed to cry, Anthony. It doesn’t devalue your fortitude.” Anthony grumbled against his throat. “Hmm, I suppose you’re right. It is time for seasonal allergies.”

His laughter was muffled. His sweet angel would offer him an olive branch for his pride. With a grateful kiss to the curve of his jaw, Crowley finally straightened. He was ready to be home, preferably cuddled on the couch with a glass of wine, and Mozart playing on the gramophone. “Can we get on?”

Anthony hadn’t released him, their bodies still fit intimately close. Aziraphale smiled fondly, fingers curling around the thin grey scarf. “Of course, my love. Ready whenever you are.” He had scarcely finished the sentence, before Anthony returned them home. They did not drink to excess that evening; instead deciding to retire to bed early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.  
And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.
> 
> Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	33. Rain, go away...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are all in this together.  
I hope everyone can stay safe during these confusing and scary times.
> 
> [Updates are aimed to be released Sunday.]  
[We thank you for reading.]

Crowley glowered at the kitchen window, the world beyond overcast and wet. It had been raining for three days, leaving them little opportunity to venture out of their cottage. Aziraphale seemed to be doing better since their foray to hospital, but Crowley remained skeptical. Aziraphale had been doing remarkably well at disguising his emotions, much to Crowley’s chagrin. 

“Oy! Angel!” Crowley turned from the window, withdrawing his phone from his pocket. He had resolutely remained conscious of Earth’s passing time. A hip cocked against the counter as he gave life to the device, checking the date and time. It was barely noon. They had plenty of time to make something of the day, and there was more to the world than just England. They could find sunshine somewhere else. He crossed to the living room, “angel, do you wanna get crepes in Paris?”

No Aziraphale. Was he still asleep? Worry flared, and refused to be calmed until Crowley had laid eyes on his angel.

Aziraphale awoke to an empty bed, and the initial, overwhelming urge to find Anthony. His panic was quelled by Oscar’s reassuring presence at his right hip. Surely if something were amiss, the Behemoth would have brought it to his attention. Rather than seeking out his absent husband, Aziraphale settled himself comfortably amongst the plentitude of pillows; determined to overcome his irrational anxieties.

A flourishing miracle clothed him in his pale blue pyjamas with accompanying reading glasses, and manifested his signed edition of Pride and Prejudice. Rain battered the window behind him, as it had been doing for the past handful of days. It was soothing, and before long, the world faded, and Aziraphale lost himself in the story.

Crowley emerged from a book lined aisle, and paused. When was the last time he had seen Aziraphale wearing his adorable glasses? Far too long. If he weren’t suffering from cabin fever, Crowley would have left Aziraphale to finish reading. As was customary when engrossed in his novels, the angel didn’t glance up when Crowley approached. Oscar’s ears twitched, though he didn’t stir.

The bed dipped under his weight, and Crowley slithered up the mattress. Aziraphale’s nose remained buried in his book. Rather than obstructing his view, Crowley laid a head on his left shoulder, unbound curls a waterfall of crimson down the front of Aziraphale’s white robe.

Aziraphale finished the paragraph he was in the middle of, before returning his Stevengraph placeholder between the pages. Delicate, wire framed glasses were removed and folded carefully. Both items were returned to his desk with a quick gesture. “I’m glad you’ve returned to me.”

“As I plan to always do.” Sitting up, Crowley pressed a firm kiss to the crown of blonde curls. Aziraphale had made remarkable strides in the past week, yet they hadn’t left their cottage. Anathema and her coven had only been mentioned in conversation. It was uncharacteristic of his angel to be so resistant to visit the witch and her offspring. Though they were not mortal, they had been taking things one day at a time. “What would you say about popping over to Paris for crepes?”

Rather than outright refusing, Aziraphale gave the proposition consideration. “Is that how you wish to spend our afternoon?”

Shifting his position so that he could meet beloved blue eyes, Crowley furrowed his brow in confusion. “You don’t want something to nibble? We can get the brioche.” Crowley hastily added, “if you like.” 

“It all sounds rather lovely, but you hardly benefit from such an outing.” Fingertips were reverential as they traced over Anthony’s dramatic frown. “You only ever drink.” 

Curling his fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist, Crowley gently pulled the appendage nearer. His words were muffled, lips tracing the soft flesh of his palm. “Watching you enjoy your meal is always a delight… when we’re not under threat of Armageddon.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes with a cluck of his tongue, though pink warmth rose to his cheeks. “Oh, good Lord. You are incorrigible. Though truly Anthony, why don’t we do something for you?” His left hand molded lovingly to the sharp curve of Anthony’s jaw, thumb stroking over the hollow of his cheek. “What is something that you have _ always _wanted to do?”

Crowley frowned, gold eyes narrowing when they met blue. He wouldn’t remind Aziraphale just how much he thoroughly enjoyed watching him savor every morsel that passed his lips. “Whot if we stop for lunch first, and then go for a walk ‘round Paris?”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow skeptically. “A walk?” Admittedly, it would be nice to stretch his legs. “It sounds quite tempting…” _ You would sacrifice Anthony’s life for lunch? Selfish angel… _“But the weather is rather ghastly.”

“As if we haven’t lived in bloody England for several centuries. Not the sunniest country.” Aziraphale didn’t look convinced. “Come on, angel. It’ll be ** _f_**_un_.”

The once paralyzing panic was now but a distant echo, Anthony’s calm rationality a reassuring voice of reason. He sat before him, alive and well. “I suppose you’re right. It would be nice to get a bit of fresh air.” It would be impolite to decline the invitation, after all.

Crowley beamed at his angel, delighted and awestruck by Aziraphale’s resilience. In a fluid movement, Crowley shifted onto his knees, and cupped beautiful, delicate features within large hands. “Thank you. I’m so proud of you, angel. I love you more than anything.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, meeting blue eyes for emphasis. Irresistible, pink lips were claimed in a kiss. 

An arm curled around his neck, sliding beneath unbound fiery curls, pulling Anthony closer. Aziraphale could feel power in the hands that gripped his biceps; he adored how it allowed him to feel like the damsel rescued by the dashing hero. His free hand slid down Anthony’s chest, fingertips trailing along flesh bared by the gaping, silk shirt. 

Their date was not so easily forgotten; Crowley found the strength to use his grip on Aziraphale, and put him at arm’s length. Rather than pouting, the angel smiled dreamily at Crowley, and his resolve very nearly crumbled. It was damn near impossible to resist him. He had to put distance between them, lest they lose another day by spending it in bed. _ Would that really be such a bad thing? _With Aziraphale’s fragility, unfortunately, it was. Rejuvenated by the prospect of lunch with his angel, Crowley grinned. “I’ll draw the shower and get it nice and hot.” Sitting back, he unfolded long limbs. “This is gonna be just fantastic. I’ll see you in a --” Bounding over the edge of the bed in excitement, his footing was lost, and Crowley hit the floor with a thud that knocked the breath from his lungs. “_Oof. _”

Aziraphale gasped in surprise. Before he could peer over the edge of the bed and provide assistance, Anthony popped up.

Long hair was swept back from his face, as Crowley backed towards the exit. “M’okay. Meant to do that. I’ll ah… see you shortly.” He whirled around, very nearly colliding with the entertainment unit, though recovering quickly enough to avoid it.

Left alone in the following silence, Aziraphale sighed, wistfully. Sometimes, it still felt surreal, the life they had built together. It was worth everything they had suffered through. _ But is it worth his life? _“Oh!” Aziraphale shouted in surprise, as Anthony suddenly bounded atop the mattress. Oscar gave a grunt of disapproval, and leapt down. Lips reunited, but before he had an opportunity to pull his beloved to him, Anthony was gone again. 

“I’d forgotten that.” Called Anthony, over his shoulder, as he darted down an aisle. 

_ Yes; a million times, yes. _ They deserved whatever happiness they could find together. Although, Heaven above and Hell below seemed intent to destroy it. _ We won’t let them. _Slipping from beneath French blue linens, Aziraphale belatedly, but no less eagerly, followed his husband to the shower. 

Aziraphale was seated across from Anthony, who looked positively stunning in a crisp black dress shirt. Rather than his grey, metallic scarf, he wore a dark sanguine paisley tie on a field of black satin. Atop that, he wore his familiar black waistcoat and overcoat, the collar popped sharply for the peek of red beneath. His long hair was a beautiful mess of curls and braids, some swept back in a small bun, to keep from his face. Aziraphale had decided to wear his usual attire, and now had doubts about doing so. Anthony had always been so fashionable. Perhaps it was time that he put more effort into his own presentation. 

The waiter paused beside their table, interrupting Aziraphale’s quiet reverie. He hadn’t yet touched the oven-baked John Dory, and the accompanying delicate, shellfish parcel. Guiltily, he met Anthony’s curious gaze, then smiled politely up at the young man. “Everything is perfect, thank you. May I have more wine, please?” Anthony translated fluidly for him. The waiter was professional enough to not point out Aziraphale’s still full glass. The same could not be said of his husband, however.

“Everything alright, angel? You haven’t finished --” Crowley gaped at Aziraphale, as he upended the glass. “Whoop, now you have. Bloody impressive.” The young human returned with the bottle, and while he poured the wine, Crowley claimed Aziraphale’s left hand. His thumb swept over the bridge of fingers, tracing along the gold, angel wings wedding band. Once they were alone again, Crowley asked, “Will you tell me how I can help?” 

Aziraphale smiled lovingly at him. Anthony frowned, looking adorably perplexed. It was such a relief to not be fretting over the threat of their safety. “Truly, my love. I’m quite alright. I was actually just thinking about how handsome you look, and then I began pondering the merit of, ah, perhaps wearing the new clothes we purchased, more often.”

Aziraphale sat with his back to the corner, and the two large, sealed doors positioned there. Though his back was to the restaurant, Crowley remained hyper-aware of the going-ons behind him. He was a physical barrier to any threat that may arise and endanger Aziraphale. Through the tall window near them, sunshine spilled across their table, and bathed his angel in the radiant rays. Glittering, pale blue eyes met Crowley’s, and he softened. “If that’s whot you want to do, and don’t feel obligated to do.”

Aziraphale delicately stabbed a shellfish en papillote, and brought it to his lips. Various herbs exploded on his tongue, and he moaned in appreciation. “_ Oh, my, yes. _” When he opened his eyes, Anthony was focused intently on him; a predator that had found his delicious prey. Aziraphale swallowed past the sudden knot of desire. Simultaneously, they reached for their glasses, eyes meeting as they drank. A dainty dab of the napkin to his lips, before it was returned to his lap. “Positively scrummy, my dear. Are you certain you don’t wish to try a bite?”

Crowley leaned back in his chair, draping an arm over the back of it as he slouched comfortably. “Couldn’t be any more certain.”

Aziraphale drew to a stop in the middle of the bridge. Crowley turned to face him, delicate features upturned in the February breeze that whipped across the Seine. He looked at peace and serene; the epitome of divinity. “If we weren’t already married, I’d propose to you now.” Though he didn’t open his eyes, Aziraphale blushed. Crowley grinned broadly, and stole a hasty kiss. “Come on, angel.”

Guided by their still joined hands, Aziraphale fell into step beside his beloved husband. “This was a wonderful idea, Anthony. Thank you. Oh, look! You can see the Eiffel Tower!” Notre Dame was a looming presence, yet as he paused, Aziraphale gestured inanely in the tower’s direction. When touring with his once demonic husband, he had grown accustomed to turning a blind eye to consecrated grounds that caused Anthony pain if he were to see it.

Though he had seen it many times before, his angel was practically bubbling with excitement. “Ah, yep. There it is. Want a picture with it?” Aziraphale’s confusion was expected. From his left jacket pocket, Crowley withdrew his iPhone, releasing Aziraphale’s hand as he did so. Opening the camera, Crowley slipped his right arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and held the device aloft. With the Eiffel Tower positioned behind them, Crowley captured a picture first of them smiling, and then of him pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple.

Laying his head on Anthony’s shoulder, he looked at the small pictures, confined to the device. “It’s a pity we can’t hang those in our cottage. I’d love a reminder of this afternoon.”

He would make damn certain that he got the pictures framed. Resuming their stroll once more, Crowley gave a gentle tug to his angel’s hand, urging him to fall into step. “Come on, angel.” They passed a group of boisterous, young humans, shouting about _ joli garcon_. Amongst them, stood Ligur; silent and menacing as amber eyes met Crowley’s. Another cluster of humans passed between them. When he looked again, Ligur was gone. _ Must have been a trick of the light. _

“I figured Mum would have fixed this with everything else…” They stood before the world renowned cathedral in the dying sunlight of another day that slipped past them. It bore wounds from the fire that had ravaged it, time not yet having healed them. _ Poor, old girl. _Aziraphale looked as disappointed as Crowley felt. The only time he had gone to church had been to rescue Aziraphale from Nazis, and plead for the angel’s forgiveness. Neither time had been pleasant. Throughout history, he had had no desire to traipse through burning, consecrated grounds for the sake of art, when there was so much more the world had to offer. But now that he had the opportunity… well, it really was his luck that it would be closed.

Aziraphale frowned. He had been positively aghast when he had learned of the church’s tragedy. It reminded him of the fire of Alexandria; the loss of all that knowledge had depressed him for decades. The humans were still nowhere close to recovering what had been destroyed. How much more advanced could they have been? “God’s plans are ineffable.” Anthony glared at him. “Oh, alright. There isn’t much we can do to change the situation. It’s not as if we can just go inside.” Gold eyes brightened with mischief, and Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh no, I know that look. It’s _ obviously _ closed, Anthony.” Aziraphale pointed emphatically to the metal barriers that separated them from the church.

“We’re ethereal beings, remember?” Crowley grinned in spite of Aziraphale’s dubious expression. “Come on.” Rather than looking for the opening, he snapped. Metal groaned as it parted like the Red Sea, morphing and contorting into a sizable entrance for them both to walk through.

He wrung his hands before him, hesitating. Anthony paused, and turned to him, an arm extended. Aziraphale closed the short distance between them, palms uniting in holy palmers' kiss. He didn’t need much coaxing. 

Drawing his arm up, Crowley brushed a kiss to the back of Aziraphale’s hand. Once they had crossed under the archways, the doors opened before them. The guards on duty suddenly found excuses to vacate the premises; they could return once the two supernatural beings had concluded their private tour.

Oxfords and black, snakeskin boots echoed. Without the bustle of humanity, the church seemed even more dismal. Too many stone windows were left naked, the beautiful, stained glass destroyed. The pair walked amongst dust motes which danced in the waning sunlight that spilled from the three massive holes in the damaged ceiling and roof. 

“Angel, do you feel that?” Crowley rolled his shoulders up to his ears, feigning indifference as they paused. Aziraphale had stopped beside him, not far from the stairs leading up to the altar. A delicate hand fluttered to his chest; clearly, he felt it. So many centuries that the humans had loved the structure. It had seen many of France’s highs and lows, and had stood proudly through it all. Until it had been bowed by the fire that had ravaged the attic. The scent of smoke teased his nostrils, and Crowley wasn’t certain if it still lingered, or if it was the memory of another fire. 

Aziraphale had returned to him, but the world had still been ending. Crowley hadn’t had time to process through his own loss, of finding Aziraphale’s most beloved possession up in flames, and Aziraphale cut abruptly from him. How destroyed Crowley had been. How easily he had succumbed to the overwhelming despair. It hadn’t been a hard decision to get thoroughly intoxicated for the last time… before Hell found him, and tortured him for an endless epoch. At least, until his inevitable Destruction. But nothing could surmount the agony he felt in the loss of Aziraphale. Destruction would have been a welcoming friend. Watching Aziraphale die, holding him, crimson blooming across his antiquated waistcoat, and bathing Crowley in its sticky warmth. The radiant, ethereal light left his corporation nothing but an empty husk; a macabre parody of his angel. 

Crowley had to shake his head to dispel the memory that hadn’t affected him too terribly much after it had occurred. _ Cut that shit out, Crowley. _He had been shoving it down, to give Aziraphale the love and attention he deserved. They had made it through the End of Everything thanks only to Aziraphale. Without him, Crowley was nothing. Through him, Crowley had found the love and acceptance he had yearned for so desperately. 

Aziraphale was bathed in humanity’s love for the once immaculate cathedral. He had to take a moment to gather himself. It invigorated him. “Love…” His voice quivered with emotion, his heart light in his chest. 

No church was alike in their measure of holiness, but in a very select few, there was a sense of an unseen path that the Almighty had walked; it lingered in the air, like the reassuring scent of cocoa, old books, or a freshly uncorked bottle of _ Chateauneuf du Pape _. Would they have noticed Her presence in their place of worship? Was that what had drawn the humans here in droves?

Aziraphale turned to Anthony. Sunshine danced in the copper of red curls, and gold eyes. No longer was he perpetually shrouded in darkness. He was beautiful, a beacon of resplendent, flaming light. He looked every bit the fierce, Archangel protector of Earth.

“_Oh, _I love you.” Launching himself into his beloved’s welcoming embrace, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his neck. Their lips reunited, and his world narrowed down to just them. The kiss was not as nearly long as he would have liked, and he showed his displeasure by pouting. 

“Oh, angel.” Gripping Aziraphale’s chin, Crowley trailed the pad of his thumb over his tempting, bottom lip. “Perhaps we shouldn’t… sacrilege an’ all that.” He lowered his hand, fingers trailing down the side of his pale throat.

His gaze dropped, studying Anthony’s expressive mouth, which was thoughtfully pursed. Aziraphale hadn’t considered that they could make love in the church. It seemed inconceivable. But now that it had been proposed, well, what better time than when it was only the two of them? “Then I beg of you to bade me to stop.” Bridging the slight distance that Anthony had put between them, Aziraphale rested a hand to his lean chest, and brushed his lips along the edge of his strong jaw. He felt the muscles tic beneath his kiss. 

Aziraphale whimpered as strong hands slid down his back, and pulled him to the toes of his Oxfords with a grip to his backside. So easily, his angel submitted to him. The magnitude of trust that was required, and which Aziraphale bestowed upon him, was incomprehensible. It was heady and arousing, but also awakened the protector in him; a responsibility he had donned millennia ago. Crowley would stop at nothing to ensure Aziraphale’s safety.

With a low growl, Crowley claimed Aziraphale’s mouth in a fierce kiss. Using his grasp on the angel’s plump rear, Crowley backed him against a nearby pillar. Eager hands pulled at his clothes, freeing his shirt from leather pants, then moved to work on his snakehead belt. Not to be outdone, Crowley broke the kiss and plucked an end of the tartan bowtie, then began working on the obscene amount of buttons. Though he knew they should be hasty, he preferred to have Aziraphale naked before him, allowing him to worship his angel without impediment. 

Hungry lips caressed over a cheek, seeking lower, towards the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale’s head fell back against the pillar, and his eyes rolled up to the once stunning ceiling, offering his throat. After his upper garments had been peeled off, Anthony kissed a trail down his body as he lowered to his knees. While he unlaced his worn Oxfords, Aziraphale hastily, and a tad clumsily, worked on his belt and trousers. As the leather strap cleared the buckle, it clattered in the cathedral when it made solid contact with Anthony’s brow. “Oh, fiddlesticks! My dear, I am dreadfully sorry.”

Crowley grinned up at his angel, unperturbed. “Not to worry, I’ve been hit with worse, angel.” Aziraphale’s fingers were gentle on his forehead, and he seized the appendage to press an affectionate kiss to the inside of his palm. Tan trousers, weighted by the offending belt in question, pooled around Aziraphale’s ankles. “May I?” While he waited for permission, he hooked an index finger into the elastic band of undergarments that provided little modesty; his member straining against thin, white fabric.

Wordlessly, and perhaps too eagerly, he nodded his consent. His unmentionables were drawn down his thighs, and as soft lips swept lovingly over the curve of a hip, gold eyes lifted to meet blue. Aziraphale exhaled a trembling sigh, trying desperately to maintain his composure. It was increasingly difficult to do, when Anthony looked so voracious.

Aziraphale was dressed down to only his below the knee, tartan socks. His arousal was flushed pink with need, beads of milky excitement forming droplets that rolled down his shaft. With the flat of his tongue, Crowley lapped from base to tip. Aziraphale mewled desperately above him. It was an accelerant to his burning need to worship the angel.

His breath caught, and he went still. The moment he was enveloped in Anthony’s mouth, life returned to him. Mindful of the bun and braids, Aziraphale lightly cradled the base of his skull. Fingernails scraped over cold stone, seeking purchase, and finding none. Lids fluttered, and his eyes rolled when he was suddenly cocooned in the warm constraint of his husband’s throat. 

His head lolled onto his shoulder, blue eyes rolling behind heavy lids. When he peered from beneath thick lashes, his gaze settled upon the altar and its cross. For a moment, horror suffused him. Anthony’s expert attention drew his gaze back down to gold, and he forgot of the sacrilege they were committing. With difficulty, he fought back the orgasm that threatened imminent release. “Ah… j-jolly good…”

With aquiline nose buried against his voluptuous, gently rounded belly, Crowley swallowed Aziraphale’s length like the snake that he once was. A spasm tore through the angel. His free hand molded to the outer swell of a creamy thigh, thumb stroking silky flesh. Crowley freed Aziraphale with a loud pop, already gaunt cheeks concaved from the suction. 

Though the weather had been mild with the sun out, the temperature had fallen in its absence. Cold air replaced the warm wetness he had been nestled in, and Aziraphale drew in a sharp, surprised gasp. “_My Lord… bless… _” Anthony’s kisses were a caress against first his right hip, and then the left.

For several long moments, his arousal was sorely neglected, though Anthony was close enough that his stubbled cheek rasped against his shaft. It was maddening, his mouth otherwise occupied, yet not unpleasantly so. Lips, tongue, and occasionally a nip from his teeth, crept up the tender flesh of his inner thighs. “P-please_ , _ Anthony… _ mercy… _” 

Denying him no further, Anthony took him into his mouth once more, his tongue undulating. It sent his angel over the edge, and he swallowed the orgasm eagerly. Aziraphale’s knees buckled, but Crowley offered his strength. Wrapping his arms around his upper legs, he grasped Aziraphale’s plump backside.

Helplessly, he whimpered and cried out. Anthony’s oral ministrations were relentless. Simultaneously, Aziraphale wished for it to never end, while his body bucked and writhed against the stone pillar, the ache of his release all-consuming. When he could stand the relentless attention to hypersensitive flesh no longer, Aziraphale wriggled out of his supportive embrace.

Compliantly, Crowley leaned back, his lap suddenly full of the trembling angel, his narrow hips framed by delicious, thick thighs. Aziraphale’s breathing was heavy against his ear and he brushed a kiss along a naked shoulder. His sweet, delicate moan was provocative when teeth scraped over supple flesh tenderly. 

Knowing lips paid equal affection to the right side of his neck, and Aziraphale trailed a finger down the center of Anthony’s chest. Beneath his touch, buttons slid themselves free. The pretty red tie was loosened but not removed, and slid from the starched collar of his shirt. His hands slipped beneath the parted fabric, greedily drinking the feel of soft flesh beneath his palms. He was drunk on wine from their late lunch and Anthony’s love. Knowing how focused Anthony could become on Aziraphale’s pleasure, he used his position to his advantage. A wriggle of his hips shifted him down lean legs, only far enough to assist leather pants and black undergarments midway down slender thighs.

Aziraphale knew he was staring, but couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing so. The stained glass window behind him was intact, the last rays of light a kaleidoscope of color. He was ethereal and regal, but there was something predatory that danced in gold eyes. It resonated within him, a primal feeling that rippled through his very essence. “You,” Aziraphale had to clear his throat before he could speak. “You are exceptionally beautiful, my love.”

Crowley glared at the angel, but only because he could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck, and his ears turning red. Sheepishly, Crowley hissed lowly, “_thankss…” _Before Aziraphale could interrupt, he hastily added. “You are by far, the singular most beautiful thing that I have ever looked upon. And you’ve seen the Bentley.” Crowley cackled delightedly as Aziraphale playfully swatted his chest. 

Capturing the hand, he held it to his heart, suddenly somber. “I’m sorry that you’ve been so distraught over my death, angel. I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize how hurt you’ve been, and that… I can’t promise not to do it again. I lived without God for too long, but I could never live without you, Aziraphale. Not ever. I love you too much.”

It should have distressed him, Anthony confirming aloud his worst fears. But it didn’t. Deep down, Aziraphale had always known. When the world was ending, and Anthony thought him gone, he had gone to a pub to await his adjudication. Rather than ruining what time they had by worrying over the future, he decided to take Anthony’s suggestion to heart. “Then I will cherish what precious time we are given, my love.”

_ You are a living miracle. _ The angel looked serene and peaceful, reaching an acceptance of a fate that neither of them could control. Would he ever be worthy of such perfection? _ Not the time… _Leaning forward, Crowley pulled him close, their kiss was frantic. 

Aziraphale took his arousal in hand and through suddenly grit teeth, Anthony inhaled sharply. “Lay back, if you please.” A dark brow rose inquisitively, but he complied with the request. One elbow supported his weight, his left hand gripping the outer swell of Aziraphale’s thigh. “Thank you, love.” He stroked the length of him, marvelling at how he felt, hard and throbbing, in Aziraphale’s hand. “I’m afraid I’ve been a neglectful husband…”

His gaze followed as he shifted lower, between Crowley’s legs that splayed obligingly for him. “Ah--angel, you know…” He had to clear his throat as Aziraphale knelt on the hard floor -- _ was it hurting his knees? _ \-- and braced his left hand alongside Crowley’s hip. “Y’know that’s never mattered to me…”

How angelic he looked, his platinum hair a luminous halo in the sunlight. Blue eyes flicked up as Aziraphale took him into his mouth. Crowley gulped, painfully, his mouth suddenly dry. _ Fuck. _He echoed the thought aloud as his fingers tangled in the silken curls he had been admiring moments before. “Fuck…” 

As he took him deeper down his throat, Aziraphale caressed his tongue to the underside of his length. A prim cough; the delicately flared head causing a laryngeal spasm upon reaching the back of his throat. Slender fingers spasmed in his hair, then relaxed almost immediately as Anthony tripped over his apology. Aziraphale pulled off of him with a pop that reverberated through the Cathedral. 

His eyes rolled as Aziraphale dabbed his arousal on pursed lips. Unable to look away for long, he returned his attention to blue eyes that peered up at him. Once more, he was drawn into the wet confines of his mouth, cheeks indenting with suction. It was almost obscene, and Crowley nearly succumbed to his orgasm. “Y’know angel, I-I…” His voice was a harsh growl, as if he had shredded his vocal chords. “M’not sure if we have time…” Crowley groaned involuntarily. 

Rather than immediately disagreeing, Aziraphale unhurriedly stroked the length of his shaft that he struggled to caress with his mouth. Narrow hips bucked, then immediately relaxed when he gagged.

It was hard to talk around his suddenly heavy tongue. “Angel, I’m sor-sorry.” It didn’t help that Aziraphale didn’t stop, despite that Crowley had fallen unnaturally still, left hand falling away. He looked quite happy, pale blue eyes sparkling above the vision of Crowley’s arousal disappearing between tempting pink lips. _ Fuckfuckfuck. _His chest spasmed with a shuddering breath. It was becoming increasingly difficult to refrain from climaxing. 

He popped off the velvety head again. Anthony growled, a harsh sound that he felt in his core. Aziraphale smiled, pleased by the crack in his composure. He prodded the tip of his tongue along the slit. 

Knuckles cracked under the force of fisted hands, afraid that if he were to tangle his fingers in blonde curls how he wanted to, he would unintentionally hurt his angel. “Oh--er--eh… Aziraphale… .” He wouldn’t have much strength to retain his composure at this rate. Black boots squealed on tiles as he tried, desperately, to remain still.

With great joy, Aziraphale drew the exquisitely shaped head just past his lips, tongue caressing. Rolling his gaze up, he watched beloved features contort in what appeared to be pain. The way his svelte body writhed, muscles rigid as he strained, unsuccessfully, to remain immobile, was captivating. His free hand slipped between their bodies, and, hesitantly, curled around his own shaft. Though it certainly didn’t feel as explosively wondrous as Anthony’s touch, it was sufficient. 

He watched the appendage disappear, and even if Crowley didn’t have the right vantage point to bear witness, he was certain of its destination. That was enough for him, knowing that Aziraphale sought to pleasure himself with Crowley’s length buried in his throat. 

Abdominal muscles tightened painfully as he spasmed, spine bowing forward. “Ang--I’m not gon--” The moan vibrated through his erection, and Crowley succumbed to Aziraphale’s modus operandi. Pleasure overtook him fiercely, stripping away his defenses and leaving him naked and exposed. His head fell back, and his sonorous moan reverberated through the cathedral. “_Aziraphale. _” It sounded wretched and vulnerable, even to his own ears. 

His hand returned to Anthony’s arousal, stroking him with renewed vigor, doing as had been done to him time and again. The warmth of his orgasm teased over his tongue, slightly sweet and salty, not unlike the pre-ejaculate that wept from the slit to lubricate his tongue and hand. It was subsequently swallowed, and Aziraphale ensured that each wave of the pulsing orgasm was met, when nerves were close to screaming from overstimulation. The hand that had returned to his hair remained gentle, even as his muscles trembled with tension. 

Aziraphale gave one last lick to his pulsing erection, before sitting up. His corporation was grateful for the change in position. Aziraphale reclaimed his former position astride narrow hips. Fingers curled around the black and red tie, and used it to pull Anthony closer. 

Obligingly, he sat up, hands biting into Aziraphale’s soft hips. Desperate, needing lips found one another. Crowley could taste himself on his angel’s tongue, and damned if his body wasn’t suddenly, achingly, ready to be buried inside him. The temptation to flip them, to lay the beautiful angel beneath him, was overwhelmingly hard to resist, but he managed to refrain.

His left hand rested atop his shoulder, beneath the fabric of mostly black clothing. Their frantic kiss was broken by Anthony’s ragged breath, elicited by the stroking of a hand that was suddenly slick with lubricant. Slowly, Aziraphale sank down, adjusting to the feel of him; unyielding and firm, and just shy of being uncomfortably endowed. Aziraphale sighed in contentment. 

Crowley reclined back onto his left elbow, trying unsuccessfully to relax. _ Fuck. _ He was tight and warm, their bodies typically healed post-coitus. Like a prat, Crowley grunted the obvious. “_Feels good…” _

He chuckled lightly. Dark fabric fell open, helped along by a sweeping hand. His left hand trailed down his lean chest, fingertips caressing over an exposed nipple. It budded beneath the touch, drawing Aziraphale’s attention, teasing over the sensitive flesh.

Crowley pulsed inside of him as Aziraphale’s hands explored his chest. With his jaw clenched, he growled lowly, “bloody hell.” The yin to Aziraphale’s yang, the angel’s love making was slow; methodical. Above him, Aziraphale was divine perfection; cheeks pink, posture prim, chin lifting features heavenward. The only thing missing were his “..._ wings_.” 

He was focused, his brow wrinkled with concentration. Each descent filled him completely, and drew a satisfied moan from him. His head fell back, gaze lifting. The sky glittered with stars just beyond the badly damaged roof. When had night arrived? He had been too intent upon his beloved to take note of the world that existed just beyond them. Anthony’s voice broke through his reverie, and he frowned down at him, perplexed. “I’m sorry?” 

“Can… I see them? Your wings? You just… I-I just…” Broad, beautiful wings unfurled, shimmering white in the moonlight that spilled through bare windows. After three days kept inside, they were immaculate. 

Crowley was grateful he didn’t have to attempt to explain his reasoning. For now, he was gratified by marveling up at the angel. Though he was not God, Crowley found himself with the overwhelming desire to worship Aziraphale. Humans had burned for their false idolatry, and angels had been cast from Heaven for less. Yet, Crowley could not alter the strength of his love for Aziraphale, no matter the risk it posed. Unable to resist, Crowley caught the angel’s downward movement with an upward thrust of his hips. Aziraphale’s sharp gasp echoed in Crowley’s ears.

Aziraphale cried out, his body aching for more, yet beneath him, Anthony grew still once more. While he very much enjoyed their current positions, he was looking forward to when Anthony severed the last threads of his restraint and reclaimed his familiar post atop Aziraphale. Trying, and failing, to hide his disappointment, Aziraphale lowered his gaze and breathily asked, “why--why did you stop?”

Crowley’s bark of laughter bounced off stone. “God, I love you.” Aziraphale moved again, raising, and as he lowered, Crowley again thrust up. The angel shuddered atop him. _ Your turn. _Seizing advantage of Aziraphale astride him, Crowley had ease of access to his bobbing arousal. “Fair’s fair, yeah?” 

A tremor rippled through him, his breath catching when a magically slickened hand wrapped around his length. It drew him to a sudden pause, but Anthony assisted by using his free hand to lift Aziraphale, allowing him to thrust up into him. His head fell back, reveling in just how marvelous Anthony made him feel. When his muscles had unlocked, and he could move again, Aziraphale continued. It was no longer so patient and slow, but a bit off tempo in his sudden urgency. With Anthony’s guiding hands, they were able to find rhythm together. 

Fingertips dimpled the alabaster flesh of his right hip, Crowley’s right hand returning to the angel’s erection. His gaze lifted to what he could see of Aziraphale’s lovely face. Soft lips were parted, his brow furrowed in a delicate frown, as if in mid prayer. A shudder wracked through his beautiful wings, stirring dust in the resultant breeze. His chin dropped to his chest, and blue eyes met gold. When he smiled, Crowley felt it like a punch to the solar plexus.

Bliss. Aziraphale smiled down at his beloved husband in blissful contentment. He looked handsome, scowling endearingly in concentration. Gently, he clung to Anthony’s left forearm for support as the pressure built, his orgasm tantalizingly near. He could feel him, so very hard. Aziraphale rocked his hips, and bit his lower lip in an attempt to silence his whimper. It sent a ripple of excitement and pleasure through him, and he shuddered. His tongue wet suddenly dry lips, as he struggled to retain his unraveling composure.

“Don’t hold back, yeah?” He could see the fracture in his angel’s prim façade. Finding traction, his boots pressed into unyielding tiles. Both hands gripped the swell of delightfully plump hips, and with newfound purchase, his hips rose to crash against Aziraphale’s bottom. The sound of skin on skin, and their equally ragged breaths, filled the stone cathedral. 

Aziraphale did not resist the flood of pleasure. With high, needful moans he reached completion. The orgasm set nerve-endings aflame and then exploded out of him. If he swore with his husband’s frequency, a few choice words would have fallen from his tongue. Instead, Anthony’s name was a prayer on his lips, repeating it reverently, and gratefully, until the point of semantic satiation. 

Aziraphale’s climax painted their abdomens. Through grit teeth, he growled encouragingly, “there’s my good angel.” The tiles were uncomfortably hard against his scapula and spine, and his muscles began to scream in protest, yet Crowley did not lose a beat in his upward thrusts. He wanted to draw his angel’s pleasure out, to guide him over the line of _ just enough, _ and flirt with _ too much. _

Blunted nails bit into his forearm, and Aziraphale’s arousal pulsed and spilled his sticky climax. The increasing press of need finally erupted from Crowley. His groan was a low, grating sound, and mixed with the angel’s moan of his name in a rapturous chorus.

Light suddenly filled the cathedral, blindingly bright when once there had been darkness. Aziraphale gasped in surprise, a weak hand fluttering to his severely palpitating heart. “What…?” The question died on his lips. Anthony slipped from beneath him, drawing his pants up as he rose. Shakily, Aziraphale folded his arms across his chest; his wings folding before him to protect his modesty.

A cursory sweep of his gaze over their surroundings found no external threat, though it raised more questions than answered. What had once been a ruined structure around them, was now an intact church. The humans were going to notice the miracle. “_Fuck.” _ With eyes closed, he swept out metaphysical antennae, and found no additional traces of angel or demon, only Aziraphale. “Was this you?” He turned to Aziraphale -- blue eyes peered up at him between large wings. 

A hand was extended down to him, and on still weak knees, Aziraphale rose. Anthony’s arm caught him when his knees buckled, pulling him into his slender body. Fingers curled into the lapel of his black coat, and he lifted his eyes to meet molten gold. Breathily, Aziraphale inquired, “I thought perhaps you had done it?” Suddenly aghast, he withdrew shakily. “Do you believe anyone will notice?”

Crowley could see the plea in blue eyes, begging Crowley to say _ no. _ “_Ehh, _I’m sure it’ll be fine, angel. Humans are a hearty lot. They’ve bounced back from the world almost ending twice now. What’s a missing library, and miraculously rebuilt church amongst friends?”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely convinced, but his worry was abated. A church’s divine restoration would not be a satisfactory answer for most, but the whole sordid event would be like Stonehenge, a mystery to the humans, but life would continue. “You’re right, of course.”

“‘Course I am.” He grinned at the scowl he received, and kissed away the frown. Aziraphale’s clothes were miraculously draped over his left arm and unhurriedly, Crowley assisted in redressing the angel, mindful of his wings. It was just as enjoyable as disrobing him. After a fierce kiss to blonde curls, he took hold of Aziraphale’s left hand. “Come on.”

Aziraphale’s fatigue was dispelled, and he grew animated as they toured the church at leisure. Aziraphale supplied what history and information that he could recall. Morning sunlight brightened colorful windows, and they concluded their tour before the altar. Jesus was limp, and lifeless in his mother’s embrace; above them the large, golden cross gleamed in the artificial light. 

With his face scrunched, Crowley squinted at Jesus. “Oh, it doesn’t even look like you. Sorry about that, mate. You understand though, right?” Draping an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, Crowley tucked the angel into his side. “Should we go to Rome now, to repair the coliseum?”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, and rolled his eyes. “Oh good, Lord.”

Crowley grinned, and leaned in to nuzzle silky curls. “Ready to go home?”

Aziraphale smiled happily, “I’m ready, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Like the rest of the fandom, these wonderful, brilliant, and inspiring characters have found home in my heart. I could not be more proud to be part of a fandom that inspires, lifts, and encourages each other.  
And of course, none of this could have been possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett.
> 
> Please see the end for the complete list of credit given for songs, quotes, and more.


	34. Tea with a witch and retired Jezebel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
We hope everyone is staying safe and sane during these tumultuous times.  
We thank you for reading!

The morning March sun was warm on her face, and the air was crisp. Anathema stood just beyond the kitchen door. It was left cracked open, in case anyone in the cottage awoke. The wind was cold as it snapped around her. Her warm, wool coat and long, burgundy skirt stirred in the breeze.

How drastically her life had changed since coming to Tadfield. The sacrifices that her family had made had finally been rewarded. Her family was irreplaceable, and filled the void that had been missing since the Devices became _ professional descendants. _The pensive moment was serene; too early to be disturbed by the still sleeping village. 

There was a shrill chirp from the iPhone in her pocket. Anathema sighed, the peace broken before she had finished her espresso. The screen came to life with a glide of her thumb over the sensor.

_ “Hey, witch. Can angel and I come over after lunch?” _

A dark brow arched above the round frame of her glasses. Anathema hadn’t ever felt the need to mince words with Crowley. She hastily replied to the text, “_You’ve never needed an invitation before.” _

Though a demon, it had only ever been in title, at least from what she had seen. His aura had never looked like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, nor Beelzebub, or even Gabriel. He had also had no difficulty penetrating the wards she had placed around the cottage to protect it from evil.

There was another chime, the message reading only: “_Cheers, see you then.” _

Anathema rolled her eyes, and dropped the device back into her pocket. Her smile lingered as she finished her coffee, looking forward to the visit from her family’s guardian angels.

Crowley slid his phone under their pillows, and drew Aziraphale back into his arms once more. The sleeping corgi grunted his disapproval, but didn’t stir. “Well, she didn’t say no.”

As Anthony laid his head to his chest, Aziraphale absently slid his fingers through sleep mussed red curls. “I do wish you had called her. I don’t trust those pesky things…”

Fingers swept through his hair, and Crowley groaned, a low sound. His eyes closed, and he curled contentedly into Aziraphale’s left side. “Think of it like when we use to send letters to one another.” Crowley wasn’t quite ready to leave the warm cocoon of downy linen, and soft angel. But Aziraphale had suggested they get lunch and go see the witch and her _ coven _.

“I suppose that you are right…” Though he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Thank you for asking, my dear. I imagine she’s quite busy with two children. It would be impolite to pop in unannounced.” The guilt that surfaced was not quite so terrible that morning. Though it did remind Aziraphale how dreadful he had been to the humans they had befriended after the End Times. Or rather, the first End Times that they had prevented.

Crowley couldn’t admit aloud that he was looking forward to seeing the kids; all of them. “Oh, yeah. I suppose so… you were saying you wanted to get lunch before seeing the witch?”

“It feels as if it has been dreadfully long since we went to the Ritz…” Aziraphale slid a silky curl between his fingers, marveling at the shimmer of copper in the sunlight. His worries dissolved under the prospect of filling an empty day with activities that he had once enjoyed. Aziraphale was beginning to reclaim the happiness that had escaped him. “Perhaps we can find something to do to fill our morning?” 

Crowley sat up at last, supporting his weight on his right hand. Aziraphale was beautiful, his blonde curls disheveled. He loved it. “Hmm. Looks like a table for two will be available.” He was irresistible. Leaning down, Crowley claimed soft, pink lips in a kiss. 

He melted beneath him, lips parting on a moan. The glide of his tongue over the full swell of Anthony’s lower lip was an invitation for the kiss to deepen. Slender fingers plunged into his hair, and Aziraphale whimpered. Oh, how we wanted to remain in bed for the remainder of the morning with his wondrous husband. But he truly wanted to dine at the Ritz with his favorite being, and then see their friends after. With hesitance, a hand fluttered between them, pressing gently against his beloved’s chest. Instantly, there was distance between them, gold eyes concerned. Sheepishly, Aziraphale admitted, “I’m beginning to feel quite peckish, my love.”

Crowley shifted onto his knees, smiling obsequiously down at his demure angel. “Can’t have that, can we?” Aziraphale frowned up at him, and he couldn’t resist the urge to kiss away the pretty downturn of his lips. It was a hasty kiss, so that Crowley could slip over the edge of the bed. He turned back to Aziraphale and helped his angel stand, before stealing one more kiss. “Come on, angel. Let’s get ready.”

“Yoohoo, Mr Shadwell, your tea is ready, luv.” In the living room of their small bungalow, she could hear the fold of the retired Witchfinder’s newspaper and his quiet grumbling as he ambled into their kitchen. Madame Tracy smiled, pleased, as he laid an affectionate kiss to her cheek.

Madame Tracy lowered saucers and cups to their small dinette. “There you are, Mr S. Nine sugars and condensed milk, just as you like it.” The phone that hung next to the back door rang. Before answering, Tracy brushed white wisps of hair back from Mr Shadwell’s brow dotingly.

She spun towards the ringing phone, her heart nearly leaping from her chest. A short, portly man stood in her way. Tracy sighed. “Ron Ormorod, you gave me a fright. You can’t hide from Brenda here for much longer.” The spectre disappeared shamefully. 

Mr Shadwell nearly choked on his tea. “Witchcraft.”

Tracy rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue, deciding to make no comment. “Hullo?” she trilled into the phone. 

Anathema’s voice responded from down the line. “Hello, Tracy. It’s Anathema…”

Blonde hair was tucked behind a pierced ear, and she leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Oh, Anathema dear! How wonderful to hear from you today. How are you?” Though they had visited Jasmine cottage just two days before to meet Maverick and have tea with Elfie, Tracy was no less delighted to hear from her young friend.

Her voice was fond, “I’m doing really well; everyone is. Newt made chocolate chip pancakes with Elfie this morning, and I think she ended up wearing more whipped cream and syrup than she actually ate…”

Tracy laughed, and Mr Shadwell looked inquisitively over at her. “It’s Anathema. Elfie and Newt made pancakes.” She redirected her attention to the phone call. “When would be a good time for us to come out there again?” It was no longer such an inconvenient trip to make, now that they had moved out of London to the village of Dorcaster on Thames. Plus, it was nice getting out and seeing the children. 

“It’s about that… you told me to call if I heard from Aziraphale. Crowley sent me a text this morning, asking if they could come over after lunch.”

Perplexed, Tracy inquired, “He sent what?” 

Anathema decided to avoid the explanation, and instead added, “we talked on the phone briefly. They’re wanting to come over after lunch.”

“I haven’t seen him since…” Tracy frowned at the memory of the angel, tragically broken after the death of his demon. Through her possession, she had been able to _ feel _ how much love he held for Crowley; could hear the elation of his thoughts when the burning car had careened down the stretch of road to the air base. Her vision had flicked over sooty features, and a shiver had raced down her spine when the man whispered lowly, confidently, _ leave it to me. _Hopefully he was faring better now that they had been reunited. “How is he doing?”

Elfie ran into the kitchen, and crashed into her mother’s legs. “Mummy!” She had her father’s proper, British dialect. When she lifted her beautiful, round face, it was covered garishly with the makeup Anathema kept for more formal events, and Halloween costume make-up. “Elfie, where’s daddy?”

“He’s changing Mav’rick. I heard you tell him that Uncle Crowl’y was coming t’day, and I wanted to dress up!” In addition to the crooked red lipstick, white face paint from Halloween, and bright blush, Eleftheria had donned her black cloak with flowing Victorian blouse, black tights and belt, knee-high pirate boots and sword, and red Superhero shield. 

Anathema couldn’t hide her grin. “Tracy, I’ve got to go. But if you and Mr Shadwell would like to come over this afternoon, we would be delighted to see you.” After disconnecting the call, she knelt before her daughter. “Elfie, what if we wash your face and you wear your Phantom mask? I know that Uncle Crowley would definitely love that…”

Solemnly, Elfie replied, “Mummy, I don’t wish to frighten Uncle Crowl’y away again.”

_ Ouch. _Anathema felt it like a stab to her chest. “Fair enough, my little love. But you know he didn’t go away because of you, right?”

Large, innocent brown eyes peered up questioningly. “Then why have him and Uncle Zirafell not come back?”

Anathema took a moment, searching for a way to explain what had transpired, without reopening the whole terrifying ordeal. Elfie still awoke in the middle of the night, screaming. “Sometimes--” Blessedly, she was interrupted by the girl’s excited shriek.

“I know! Uncle Crowl’y would love my clown mask!” And so the hunt began. They were not successful finding the missing mask, but Elfie didn’t dwell too long. Her father had made a good case for her to wear her pirate Captain hat.

It was Crowley who stopped alongside the pond, his right arm draping around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Lily pads gently bobbed in the ripples created by the waterfall. The Rock Garden was far more lovely than the name lent credence to. Crowley mused aloud, “Not bad…” 

“Not bad?” Aziraphale parroted the question, reeling in offense to gape at his beloved. Once he had collected himself, he rested his head on Anthony’s shoulder. His gaze drifted over their beautiful surroundings. It was almost as lovely as Eden. 

Sunlight danced in the blonde curls that Crowley buried his nose in. Aziraphale had been the one to suggest Kew Gardens. A change of venue over their typical stroll through St James’s Park. He would have to tell Aziraphale just how much he had enjoyed the trip once they were home, alone, where he felt safe expressing his vulnerability. The angel had never passed judgement on him for his _ feelings. _ Crowley sneered, grateful that silky strands obstructed the contortion of features. The silence had stretched too long, allowing him time to brood. Yet he was unable to shake the fact that he felt no different than he had as a demon. _ What does that me-- _He cut the thought short, and purred lowly, “everything pales in comparison next to you, angel.”

Aziraphale tittered, rolling his eyes. “Oh, you wily angel.” Though the compliment was appreciated, Aziraphale was not so easily distracted. “What are you fretting, my love?” Anxiety was a familiar companion, yet not entirely unwelcome. Certainly he should be worried, if Anthony was. He tended to have a nose for trouble.

“_Fret?_” Indignantly, Crowley added._ “_I do not fret.” Aziraphale was worriedly wringing his hands. They stilled beneath his touch, and he drew them to his chest. His angel didn’t look convinced. “Even if I did fret -- which I don’t, mind -- but if I _did, _it wouldn’t be much to note.”

He frowned, but decided it was best not to push the matter. If it concerned their safety, certainly Anthony would be more forthcoming. Aziraphale slipped his arms around his beloved’s narrow waist, his cheek resting atop the curve of an unyielding shoulder. “Whenever you are ready to talk, my dear…”

_ I wouldn’t dare burden you with this drivel. _“Thanks, angel.” Crowley absently stroked the length of his angel’s back, the old coat soft beneath his palms. “Ready to get something to nibble?” Every miserable thing he had endured was worth the way blue eyes brightened with unfiltered joy.

“Oh my, yes. All this walking has made me a bit famished…”

As the couple approached their table, gold eyes flicked dispassionately to Oliver. _ Contacts. _ Yet, even as, rationally, he told himself that the striking gold irises were contacts, a bead of sweat trailed down his nape. His heart palpitated with irrational fear. Rather unprofessionally, Oliver gaped. _ Is that why he always wears sunglasses? _It was with a stumbling recovery, that the waiter stammered, “M-Mr Crowley.” 

The young man’s startled expression relaxed into a smile when his attention shifted to Aziraphale. Crowley couldn’t blame him; he knew he lit up when he looked upon the angel. 

Disturbed, he averted his gaze from the slender man. “Mr Fell. Good to see both of you again.” As the two men sat, Oliver popped the cork of Dom Perignon. The couple had once been regular patrons. Consistently, Mr Crowley ordered the champagne prior to each meal to cleanse their palates. Though, the darker haired man never ate.

Oliver and Teddy, the maître d', speculated that the ginger was an underground model, but could never seem to agree on what the blonde did. His presence was soothing, no matter how Oliver’s day had been going thus far, and he seemed intelligent. Perhaps an English Professor. 

Aziraphale smiled up at the young man once he had filled delicate flute glasses. His attention was drawn back to Anthony, as it always was, and he sighed contentedly. They had had many happy meals at the Ritz. “I love you, Anthony.”

Crowley slouched in his chair, and grinned dreamily over at Aziraphale. Though the angel dominated his attention, he remained hyper-aware of their surroundings. “I love you too, my angel.”

_Open declarations of love?_ _I cannot wait to tell Teddy. _Oliver tried desperately to hide his delighted grin. He had not been present the last time the couple had dined at the restaurant; the night of the fire. He had been perfectly fine all day. Prior to walking into the Ritz for his shift, he had become suddenly, violently ill, and had slept the remainder of the day. When he awoke, he felt better than he ever had. Until he heard of the fire and the botched proposal; Teddy had been the poor maitre d’ accosted that evening. Oliver was pleased that things seemed to have worked out for the best. It gave him hope. Bowing, he backed away, mumbling, “I’ll give you a few moments.”

Aziraphale returned his glass to the table, then laid a hand atop Anthony’s right forearm. “My dear, would you mind terribly if we went to the shops to pick something out for the children?”

His grousing was half-hearted, still too enamored with the vivacious angel beside him. Blue eyes sparkled with excitement, and Aziraphale sat even more primly. “Oh-ah, yup. We can do whotever you want.”

“Oh, Anthony. Thank you. I know how tedious you find shopping.” Giving one last affectionate squeeze to his beloved’s arm, Aziraphale turned to his menu.

Crowley grinned lopsidedly as he watched the angel. “Anything for you.” Even observing him read was mesmerizing. He gave all the options due consideration before making his final decision of an overpriced duck and sweet meringue. 

Anathema was in the kitchen, making a bottle for Maverick. He would be waking soon from his nap. Madame Tracy assisted with setting the kettle on. _ 101 Dalmation Street _played quietly on the telly. Elfie was curled into her father’s side; a rare moment of quiet in their expanding family.

Retired Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell sat awkwardly on the other end of the sofa, fingertips tapping the tops of his thighs. He couldn’t recall the last time they had been to the quaint cottage, and it always seemed to be in a fluxing state of change. No doubt the witch was to blame for the sense of unease he felt. She was corrupting Witchfinder Private Pulsifer, who was Shadwell’s responsibility to protect. The silence was heavy, and compelled to fill it, he blurted, “Blink twice if ye’ need me to break ye’ free o’ th’ witch’s lubricious ways.”

“_What? _” Incredulously, Newt turned to him. “Pardon me, Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, but she makes me happy.” Anathema’s faint voice carried to him from the kitchen, and Elfie snuggled deeper into his side. He smiled down at his daughter, cherishing the second chance they had been given. If it hadn’t been for Aziraphale and Crowley, things would be drastically different, and exponentially worse for it. 

There was a sharp knock at the door, though it immediately crashed back into the walls. It was a miracle that the glass panes didn’t break. With an excited shriek, Elfie slipped from the sofa, and ran for the foyer with a shriek of, “_they’re here! _”

Aziraphale clucked, and Crowley grinned toothily. “Whot? I knocked first, angel.” Free hand, not laden with bags, curled around Aziraphale’s waist, escorting him inside the cottage. “Come on.”

They had just cleared the threshold, when the little human crashed into his legs. “Uncle Crowl’y!” 

His hands miraculously freed, Crowley knelt, and opened his arms. Elfie’s fierce grip around his neck would have strangled a lesser angel. “Little elf, I’ve missed you.”

“What happ’n’d to your eyes?” The question came after she had finally relinquished her tight embrace, and leaned back to study his face. 

Heat crept up his neck, and Crowley’s gaze flicked just beyond her. The witch stood in the threshold to the sitting room. “I’m an angel, now.”

Aziraphale remained immobile, breath held; afraid to move and disturb the pair. Anthony had always held such fondness in his heart for children. It was worth every hardship they had endured, to watch his walls come down. Even if it was only enough to dote on the child. _ He would be such a remarkable father. _

Perplexed, Elfie asked, “You weren’t an angel a’fore?”

Flinching, Crowley admitted, “ah, no… I-I was a demon before.” A demon had a way of intuiting people, of knowing things that no one else knew. Angels had the same capabilities, being of the same stock. Crowley knew Elfie’s terrorizing dreams; of angry shouts, the frightening boom of thunder with accompanying blinding flashes of light, and mysterious wet squelching. They were because of him. Gabriel’s pride had been damaged because of him. Erasing the memory could make things worse. So Crowley gave her peace. 

His gaze swept over the familiar faces of the humans, and Crowley uncomfortably cleared his throat. Frantic knocking behind him startled everyone. In one movement, Aziraphale and the kid were swept behind him. 

“I don’t believe that people with malintent usually knock…” Aziraphale supplied helpfully.

Giles Baddicombe hadn’t brought the prophecy maliciously, but had been a harbinger of boom nonetheless. “Ye saga continues…” Anathema was met with perplexed expressions from her friends. “What?”

Crowley remained slouched, though tension crept through his muscles as he poised. The door was opened with little fanfare. On the other side were the Them. “Oh, ah, yeah. Hey, witch. We passed the Them biking.” He turned back to Elfie, who had rejoined him at his hip. He didn’t fight the smile. “I could use a cuppa, whot do you say, little Elf?” 

The chorus of agreement from the Them meant that it certainly wouldn’t be a dull affair. The presents were forgotten bags in the kitchen, as they took their imaginary tea in the garden.

Pepper had refused to pour tea before Adam, because it was just as much a boy’s job, as a girl’s. Elfie had liked the sentiment, and refused her turn to serve until after all the boys had gone. Wensleydale had meticulously arranged the biscuits, which Anathema had purchased from the bakery, on the platter. 

Sated on imaginary and real tea, and fueled by sugar, the children had grown restless. Elfie bounded from her chair, and brandished the sword at her hip wildly. “I challenge you to a duel, Uncle Crowl’y!”

Delicate china tinkled as Aziraphale lowered his cup to the saucer. “You’re likely to hurt yourself or someone else.” Upon rising, Aziraphale took the time to tug his waistcoat into place, and smooth the wrinkles from his coat. “Every good swordsperson has practiced safety prior to their first duel.” A flutter of fingers materialized wood practice swords with sheath. 

With excited whooping, the Them scrambled to the rack that held the blunted weapons. It was hard to argue with celestial beings that had defended Earth with flaming blades. Adam handed Pepper a sword, before joining Wensleydale, Elfie, and Crowley where they stood before Aziraphale. 

Before the humans had invented time, Aziraphale had trained with the best of the Principalities, including Archangel Haniel. He knew how to wield a sword effectively, but had no heart for it. Aziraphale had believed that God’s Judgement should not be born from violence. “Right. Let’s begin with the proper stance…”

The children, and Anthony, had kept their focus long enough to learn basic sword safety and positioning. “Uncle Zirafell, aren’t you gonna help us save Pr’ncess Crowl’y?”

Aziraphale sighed remorsefully. “Alas, I cannot, brave knight. I am sworn to pacifism.” 

“Pardon me, wha’s passifms?” Elfie asked, with a raise of her arm.

“It’s the belief that all violence is unjustifiable, no matter the reason.” Wensleydale pushed his glasses up his nose.

Elfie blinked slowly, and then asked. “Wha’s unjustifble?”

“Oh, I know this one! It means ‘not right’.” Brian shouted over Pepper, who had begun to explain. If glares were deadly… 

“Pepper, Adam, Brian, Wensleydale, and Eleftheria… please, kneel before me, and I shall knight all before your arduous adventure.”

Though Crowley was to be a damsel in distress, he knelt solemnly before his angel. Aziraphale beamed joyfully at him. With rapt fascination, he watched his angel dub Pepper on first the right shoulder, then left. Aziraphale looked peaceful, and happy. It appeased the darkness inside of him, and allowed Crowley to relax, even if only a little. 

He stood before Anthony, the fair maiden. He was perfection, and had donned a long, burgundy gown, the billowing sleeves accented with black. The bodice was fitted, yet remained modest. Anthony’s beautiful curls were tamed by a ribbon of black silk beneath the sheer, dark veil; the wimple a bright flash of silver. 

The flat of the blade touched gently to Crowley’s right shoulder, then the left. It took six thousand years of practiced restraint to not kiss Aziraphale when he stood. Instead, as Crowley bowed reverently, he pulled the ribbon free, and offered it to Aziraphale. “A token of my affection.” A beautiful blush darkened his delicate angel’s features, and Crowley grinned. A war cry broke the silence around them, and the group of children scattered.

“Come on, Mr Crowley!” Shouted Brian.

“Actually, I believe he’s Princess Crowley.” Wensleydale corrected, despite Brian’s eye roll.

“I believe you’re meant to be taken prisoner, my dear.” Aziraphale threaded the ribbon between his fingers. 

“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take…” Crowley gave one last lingering look of his beautiful angel, before brandishing the wooden sword above his head. “Our freedom!” Hiking his gown to his ankles, Crowley charged after Wensleydale and Brian.

Aziraphale sat in the kitchen with Anathema and Madam Tracy. Shrieks, shouts, and the occasional clatter of swords could be heard through the open window. Retired Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell remained in the sitting room, reading the newspaper. Newt had snuck around the front of the cottage to surprise attack Elfie, Pepper, and Adam earlier in the afternoon.

Maverick nestled into Aziraphale’s arms, yawning. _ Sweet babe. _The back of his knuckles were a whisper-soft caress over an impossibly soft cheek. 

The Them and Elfie shrieked in unison. Madam Tracy’s attention flicked briefly to the window. With an elbow on the table, she rested her chin in her palm. Steely, blue eyes leveled on Aziraphale. “So how have you two been, luv, if you don’t mind my asking?”

His breath trembled imperceptibly, and Aziraphale averted his eyes from the former psychic’s knowing gaze. “It’s been…” He wracked his mind for a word that wouldn’t give away just how much he had struggled. Oh, how selfish he had been. “...difficult. But we’re sorting it all out.” _ I’m sorry. _He wanted to give voice to the apology, but it wasn’t sufficient. He had let them down, and Anathema had been hurt because of it. Surely, he could have protected her from another motor vehicular accident.

“‘Sorting it out’?” Madam Tracy arched an eyebrow. 

Cautiously, Aziraphale elaborated. “Ah, well, I’ve been having these terrible nightmares, but… Anthony has been exceptionally wonderful and patient with me.”

Too many years to recall ago, Witchfinder Private Thomas Shadwell had been a strapping young man. He had moved into the flat across from her in 1969. He had been handsome, and mysterious, and never once questioned her late-night suitors. 

Though she had often fantasized of it, they had never fallen into bed together. Tracy had cared for Mr Shadwell from the flat across the hall. In more recent years, when she had noticed a loss of weight, Tracy had begun preparing meals for him, ensuring he ate. While she may not be able to conceive of love that began with the first man and woman, love had grown in the years she had known Shadwell. Tracy knew Crowley would do everything within his power to help Aziraphale. Even if that meant surrendering his own life. The things people do for love. “You’ve been blessed to have such a supportive partner. One who knows how to take care of you.”

Did Madam Tracy know of the sting inflicted? _ Don’t cry. _ “Yes… yes I have.” Had he told God how thankful he was to have Anthony’s love? Certainly, Anthony choosing to love Aziraphale was free will, but without Her, Aziraphale would not exist. _ Nor would Anthony’s life continually be in peril. _

_ Ah. _“It’s not unusual for couples to go through a bit of a rough patch after a traumatic event. You know, luv… I’ve not done couple’s counseling, but if you’d like, I could give it a go. They say being a woman of the night is akin to being a therapist.”

Anathema arched an eyebrow above round frames. Incredulously, she asked, “who says that?”

“Oh, you know.” Tracy waved a hand dismissively. “_They _do.”

Her gaze lingered on the retired _ woman of the night, _ before turning back to Aziraphale. His smile was brittle, and there was a tightness around his eyes. Anathema focused more intently on the angel. Cancerous and black, the empty void threatened to consume Aziraphale’s aura. Typically, it was green and pink with tendrils of orange and gloomy grey, all encased in a vibrating, and ever-moving shell of molten gold that was indistinguishable from Crowley’s eyes. _ Is that Crowley’s love? Impossible. Focus, like a professional descendant. _

Anathema smiled reassuringly at the celestial being. Briefly, she laid a hand on his forearm, squeezing gently. “He loves you, Aziraphale. Whatever you two are going through, you’ll come out on the other side stronger together.” Aziraphale wouldn’t meet her eyes and his aura was only darkening. “Unless you’re the one that’s unhappy?”

“Oh, Heaven’s no!” The exclamation startled Maverick. “Oh, my dear boy, I’m so sorry.” Resuming his gentle rocking and rhythmic pats soothed the infant back to sleep. “Well… for quite a while, I was having the nightmares of Anthony’s destruction while… awake. It was just dreadful…”

Twilight was quickly encroaching by the time Aziraphale had caught Anathema and Madam Tracy up to most of what had transpired while he and Anthony had been away. He couldn’t bring himself to mention the night in the garden, or how close he felt he had come to insanity. When he finally glanced up from the bottle that Maverick was drinking heartily from, his companions were looking at him as if he had grown another head.

At last, Tracy finally asked. “How many times a day did you say you guys were getting a leg over?”

Anathema had been intently focused on Aziraphale, but turned to frown at Tracy. “_What?” _

Readjusting Maverick, Aziraphale gently patted his back. 

“You know,” Tracy leaned forward, and lowered her voice. “_Shagging _.”

Anathema straightened, nodding emphatically in agreement. “Same question for me.”

Heat rose to his cheeks. Aziraphale clucked in embarrassment, and rolled his eyes. “Good Lord.” He softened, and smiled demurely at both Anathema and Madam Tracy. Their banter had succeeded in lightening his spirits. “Is that what the two of you gleaned from all of that?” He cooed down at Maverick.

“Yes? I mean… partially. You said you went for a _ week. _Humans have to stop to eat, drink, sleep, and use the facilities.” As worried, and yes, even hurt, as she had been over Aziraphale’s absence, she understood. They had waited so long for their happiness, and once they were living it, others had wanted to destroy it. They had succeeded, too. Crowley had died. Aziraphale had felt the loss, and it wasn’t an experience so easily forgotten. All Anathema could offer him now was support.

“Oh. I hadn’t ever considered that.” Perhaps it was for the best. Humans could be quite hedonistic. The door to the garden opened, and Newt entered. He was followed by four exhausted, muddy, and perspiring children, who filed into the kitchen, but no further. Anthony brought up the rear, wearing his coat and tie from lunch, and cradling a sleeping Eleftheria to his chest. Aziraphale’s heart swelled, and tears blurred his vision. It was such a beautiful, domestic moment, and it suited Anthony perfectly. Everything was right in his world, as long as Anthony was there.

Crowley’s gaze immediately found his angel, and looked him over. Even in the impinging darkness, light bent for Aziraphale. Crowley inspected the cooing, yellow swathing of blankets. When he finally met pale blue eyes, something inside of him shifted into place, finding clarity. Hugging Elfie to his chest, Crowley could only question, _ why can’t we? _

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly,  
Thank you, dear reader, for sticking with it and getting this far.
> 
> Credit distributed where credit is respectfully due:  
\- This, obviously, wouldn’t have been made possible without the brilliant minds of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Thank you to the god of Good Omens, for allowing us to have the original book version, the radio version, and the Amazon miniseries version.  
\- Which leads me into… thank you, Michael feral Sheen, and David fucking Tennant for blessing us with the blatant love that these two have for one another. Thank you to everyone else that participated, no matter how small, in the TV miniseries that gave such inspiration to many.  
\- We claim no hand in the naming of Anthony Janthony Crowley, but it has been accepted as a personal head canon and will be used thusly. Thank you to whatever genius enlightened the fandom to Janthony.  
\- Google Maps.  
\- Google.  
\- Wikipedia.  
\- Vivaldi, The Four Seasons – Summer.  
\- “This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, -- often the surfeit of our own behavior, -- we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance; drunks, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star.” – King Lear, William Shakespeare.  
\- “Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.” – Hamlet, William Shakespeare.  
\- Schubert, Ave Maria.  
\- Fleurie, Hurts Like Hell.  
\- Symphony No. 6 in F Major, Op. 68 “Pastoral”: Andante molto moto – Beethoven.  
\- Can’t Help Falling in Love with You – Haley Reinhart.  
\- Pale Blue Eyes, Velvet Underground [Bebop].  
\- Make You Feel My Love, Adele.  
\- “Not my daughter, you bitch.” Harry Potter, JK Rowling.  
\- “God knows I’m no saint, But I don’t think I’m more of a sinner than any other man.” – The Nonesuch, Georgette Heyer.  
\- Holy, Zolita.  
\- The Tragedy of Hamlet, William Shakespeare.  
\- Antony and Cleopatra, William Shakespeare.  
\- “Why do you read so much?” – Tyrion Lannister, Game of Thrones, season 1, episode 2.  
\- “Look at me, and tell me what you see. Things are expected of me.” – Tyrion Lannister, Game of Thrones, season 1, episode 2.  
\- “Well, my brother has his sword, and I have my mind. And a mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone.” – Tyrion Lannister, Game of Thrones, season 1, episode 2.  
\- “Everything’s better with some wine in the belly.” – Tyrion Lannister, Game of Thrones, season 1, episode 2.  
\- “I drink and I know things.” – Tyrion Lannister, Game of Thrones, season 1, episode 2.  
\- Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare.  
\- From Eden, Hozier.  
\- Sinners, Lauren Aquilina.  
\- Rance Gardenia Soap, thesoapbar.com.  
\- “My sweet summer child” - Old Nan, Game of Thrones, season 1, episode 3.  
\- “Hey demons, it’s me, ya’ boi.” – Buzzfeed Unsolved, Shane Madej.  
\- I Was Born To Love You, Queen.  
\- Now I’m Here, Queen.  
\- Don’t Stop Me Now, Queen.  
\- Astronauts, Rachel Platten.  
\- “Mōshiwakearimasenga, watashi wa doko ni imasu ka?”  
Pardon me, where am I?  
\- “Ah, anata wa genzai, Igirisu de itte mōshiwake arimasen.”  
You are currently I am sorry to say in the united kingdom.  
\- “Korera subete ni tsuite sumimasen. Watashi no otto wa sukoshi nesshin sugiru kamo shiremasen.”  
I am sorry about all this. My husband can be a bit overzealous.  
\- “In action, how like an angel, in apprehension, how like a god, the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?” – Hamlet, William Shakespeare.  
\- Better Place, Rachel Platten.  
\- "I drink to the general joy o' th' whole table" - Macbeth, William Shakespeare.  
\- “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take… our freedom!” - William Wallace, Braveheart.
> 
> And of course, thanks to my friend, Salenya, for co-authoring.  
We spent many long nights inebriated, researching and obsessing, and finding ourselves wonderfully off topic.  
By the way, she's writing her own Good Omens fic, For God is Ineffable in Her Love. Go check it out!
> 
> Salenya here...I can't believe you just Aziraphaled me on Ao3. You will not deny our love! You're my best friend, obsession buddy, and drinking partner. Love you bitch!


End file.
